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^i ( f ^ f ' ^ • • 




■■<» 



THE 



JIILL OX THE Fixes. 



GEORGE ELIOT, 



•*8CESES OF CfjgnTAT. UWtr AXD "ADiAM 



'•In 



KEW YORK: 

HARPER ic BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 



W. L POOLET A COi, 

TRAmmUM ■QVi 

1860. 



1/ 



MRVMD COlUVf Lll 
RMOn UIKMC UWIU. 






•.^^ 



BOOK FIRST. 



BOY AND GIRL. 



1/ 



MRVMD COIUIK Lll 
KBIOfT UNMKMC UMMU. 



^ 



■ 
4^ 



BOOK FIRST. 



BOY AND GIRL. 



CONTENTS. 



BOOK FIRST. 
BOY AND ancu 

CHAITEB PAOR 

I. Oatside Dorlcote Mm 7 

U. Mr. Tolliyer, of Dorlcote Mill, declares his Resolution about 

Tom 9 

III. Mr. Riley gives his Advice coDCcming a School for Tom 14 

IV. Tom is expected 25 

V. Tom comes home 30 

VI. The Aunts and Uncles are coming 38 

VII. Enter the Aunts and Uncles...^ 48 

VIII. Mr. TuUiver shows his weaker Side 68 

IX. To Garum Firs 77 

X. Maggie behaves worse than she expected. ' 89 

XI. Maggie tries to run away from her Shadow 94 

XII. Mr. and Mrs. Glegg at home 104 

Xni. Mr. TuUiver further entangles the Skein of Life. 115 



BOOK SECOND. 

SCHOOL-TIME. 

I. Tom's "First Half' 119 

II. The Christmas Holidays 137 

III. The new Schoolfellow .' 143 

IV. **The young Idea" 148 

V. Maggie's second Visit 158 

VI. A Love Scene 162 

VII. The Golden Gates are passed 166 



BOOK THIRD. 

THE DOWNFALL, 

I. What happened at home 173 

II. Mrs. Tulliver*s Teraphim, or household Gods 178 

IIL The Family Council 183 

IV. A vanishing Gleam 196 

V. Tom applies his Knife to the Oyster 199 

VI. Tending to refute the popular Prejudice against the Present of a 

Pocket-knife 210 

VII. How a Hen takes to Stratagem 216 

VIII. Daylight on the Wreck 226 

IX. An Item added to the family Register 238 



VI CONTENTS. 



BOOK FOURTH. 

THE VALLEY OF HL'MELLATION. 

CBAFTKB PAGE 

I. A Variation of Protestantism unknown to Bossnct 239 

n. The torn Nest is pierced by the Thorns 243 

IIL A Voice from the Past 248 



BOOK FIFTH. 

WHEAT AND TARES. 

I. In the red Deeps 261 

n. Aunt Glegg learns the Breadth of Bob's Thumb 272 

III. The wavering Balance 287 

IV. Another Love Scene 293 

V. The cloven Tree 298 

VI. The hard-won Triumph 309 

VII. A day of Beckonm^ 313 



BOOK SIXTH. 

THE GRK^T TEMPTATION. 

I. A Duet in Paradise 319 

II. First Impressions 326 

III. Confidential Moments 338 

IV. Brother and Sister 342 

V. Showing that Tom had opened the Oyster 349 

VI. Illustrating the Laws of Attraction 353 

Vri. Philip re-enters 362 

VIII. Wakem in a new Light 374 

IX. Charity in Full-dress 380 

X. The Spell seems broken 389 

XI. In the Lane 394 

XII. A Family Party 400 

Xni . Borne along by the Tide 407 

XTV. Waking 418 



BOOK SEVENTH. 



X 



THE FINAL RESCUE. 

I. The Return to the Mill 429 

n. St. Ogg*s passes Judgment 435 

m. Showing that old Acquaintances are capable of surprising us 443 

IV. Maggie and Lucy 448 

V. The last Conflict 464 

Conclusion 464 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 



CHAPTER I. 

OUTSIDE DOBLCOTB MILL. 



A WIDE plain, where the broadenmg Floss hurries on be- 
tween its green banks to the sea, and the loving tide, rushing 
to meet it, checks its passage with an impetuous embrace. On 
this mighty tide the black ships, laden with the fresh-scented 
fir-planfcg, with rounded sacks of oil-bearing seed, or with the 
dark glitter of coal, are borne along to the town of St. Ogg's, 
which shows its aged, fluted red roofs and the broad gables of 
its wharves between the low wooded hill and the river brink, 
tinging the water with a soft purple hue under the transient 
glance of this February sun. Far away on each hand stretch 
the rich pastures and the patches of dark earth, made ready 
for the seed of broad-leaved green crops, or touched already 
with the tint of the tender-bladed autunm-sown corn. There 
is a remnant still of the last year's golden clusters ^f beehive 
ricks rising at intervals beyond the hedgerows ; and every 
where the hedgerows are studded with trees: the distant 
ships seem to be lifting their masts and stretching their red- 
brown sails close among the branches of the spreading ash. 
Just by the red-roofed town the tributary Ripple flows with a 
lively current into the Floss. How lovely the Kttle river is, 
with its dark, changing wavelets ! It seems to me like a liv- 
ing companion while I wander along the bank and list^kto its 
low placid voice, as to the voice of one who is deaf andloving. 
I remember those large dipping willows. I remember the 
stone bridge. 

And this is Dorlcote Mill. I must stand a minute or two 
here on the bridge and look at it, though the clouds are threat- 
ening, and it is far on in the afternoon. Even in this leafless 
time of departing February it is pleasant to look at it — per- 
haps the chUl damp season adds a charm to the trimly-kept, 
comfortable dwelling-house, as old as the elma axifli cJcie^XxixA*^ 
that shelter it from the northern blast. The alream \&\>t\x«S»N. 
now, and lies high in this little withy planlalioii, ^aiQi \i^ 



8 THE MILL ON TKB FLOSS. 

drowns the grassy fringe of the croft in front of the house. 

As I look at the full stream, the vivid grass, the delicate 

bright-green powder softening the outline of the great trunks 

and branches that gleam from under the bare purple boughs, 

^ am in love with moistness, and envy the white ducks that 

tare dipping their heads far into the water here among the 

\withes, unmindful of the awkward appearance they make in 

Hhe drier world above. 

The rush of the water and the booming of the mill bring a 
dreamy deafiiess, which seems to heighten the peacefulness of 
the scene. They are like a great curtain of sound, shutting 
one out from the world beyond. And now there is the thun- 
der of the huge covered wagon, coming home with sacks of 
igrain. That honest wagoner is thinking of his dinner, getting 
sadly dry InTEeoven at this late hour; but he will not touch 
it ti& he has fed his horses — ^the strong, submissive, meek-eyed 
i beasts, who, I fancy, are looking mild reproach at him from 
/ between their blinkers, that he should crack his whip at them 
in that awful manner, as if they needed that hint I See how 
they stretch their shoulders up the slope toward the bridge, 
with all the more energy because they are so near home. 
Look at their grand shaggy feet, that seem to grasp the firm 
earth, at the patient strength of their necks bowed under the 
heavy collar, at the mighty muscles of their struggling haunches ! 
.1 should like well to hear them neigh over their hardly-earned 
:J=feed of com, and see them, with their moist necks freed from 
the harness, dipping their eager nostrils into the muddy pond. 
Now they are on the bridge, and down they go again at a 
swifter pace, and the arch of the covered wagon disappears at 
the turning behind the trees. 

Now I can turn my eyes toward the mill again, and watch 
the unresting wheel sending out its diamond jets of water. 
That little girl is watching it too : she has been standing on 
just the same spot at the edge of the water ever since I paused 
on thiSlpidge* And that queer white cur with the brown ear 
seems to be leaping and barking in ineffectual remonstrance 
with the wheel ; perhaps he is jealous because his playfellow 
in the beaver bonnet is so rapt in its movement, it is time 
the little playfellow went in, I think ; and there is a very bright 
fire to tempt her : the red light shines out under the deepen- 
ing -gray of the sky. It is time, too, for me to leave off restr 

ing my arms on the cold stone of this bridge 

Ah I my arms are really benumbed. I have been pressing 
mjr elbows on the arms of my chair, and dreaming that I was 
standing on the bridge in front of Dorlcote Mill, as it looked 
one Febraary afteraoon many years ago. Ti^teT^\ ^ou^^ ^^^ 



THE MILL OK THB FLOSS. 9 

I was going to tell you what Mr. and Mrs. Tulliver were talk- 
ing about as they sat by the bright fire in the left-hand parlor 
on that very afternoon I have been dreaming of. 



CHAPTER n. 

MB. TULLIVEB, OF DOBLCOTB MILL, DECLABES HIS BBS0LT7TI0N 

ABOUT TOM. 

"What I want, you know," said Mr. Tulliver — "what I 
want is to give Tom a good eddication — an eddication as'll be 
a bread to him. That was what I was thinking of when I 
gave notice for him to leave th* academy at Ladyday. I mean 
to put him to a downright good school at Midsummer. The 
two years at th' academy 'ud ha* done well enough, if Fd 
meant to make a miller and farmer of him, for he's had a fine 
sight more schoolin' nor Zever got : all the leamin' my father 
ever paid for was a bit o' birch at one end and the alphabet at 
th' other. But I should like Tom to be a bit of a scholard, so 
as he might be up to the tricks o' these fellows as talk fine and 
write with a flourish. It 'ud be a help to me vd' these law- 
suits, and arbitrations, and things. I wouldn't make a down- 
right lawyer o' the lad — ^I should be sorry for him to be a 
raskill — ^but a sort o' engineer, or a surveyor, or an auctioneer 
and vallyer, like Riley, or one o' them smartish businesses as 
are all profits and no outlay, only for a big watch-chain and a 
high stooL They're pretty nigh all one, and they're not fiur 
off being even vd' the law, i" believe ; for Riley looks Lawyer 
Wakem i' the face as hard as one cat looks another. H^b 
none frightened at him." 

Mr. Tulliver was speaking to his wife, a blonde comely wom- 
an, in a fan-shaped cap (I am afraid to think how long it is 
since fan-shaped caps were worn — they must be so near com- 
ing in again. At that time, when Mrs. Tulliver was nearly 
forty, they were new at St. Ogg's, and considered sweet things). 

" Well, Mr. Tulliver, you know best ; Fve no objections. 
But hadn't I better kill a couple o' fowl and have th' aunts 
and uncles to dinner next week, so as you may hear what sis- 
ter Glegg and sister Pullet have got to say about it ? There's 
a couple o' fowl wanU killing I" 

" xou may kill every fowl i' the yard, if you like, Bessy; 
but I shall ask neither aunt nor uncle what I'm to do wi' my 
own lad," said Mr. Tulliver, defiantly. 

" Dear heart I" said lAis. Tulliver, shocked at \)[i\& ^wv^QCfiosrs 
rhetonCf '^Low can you talk so, Mr.TuUiveT? "BxxX. \^5^ ^^'W 

A2 



N / 10 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

way to speak disrespectful o' my family; and sister Glegg 
throws all the blame upo' me, though I'm sure I'm as imiocent 
as the babe miborn. For nobody's ever heard me say as it 
wasn't lucky for my children to nave aunts and uncles as can 
live independent. Howiver, if Tom's to go to a new school, I 
should like him to go where I can wash him and mend him; 
else he might as well have calico as linen, for they'd be one as 
yallow as th' other before they'd been washed half a dozen 
times. And then, when the box is goin' backards and forrards, 
I could send the lad a cake, or a pork-pie, or an apple ; for he 
can do with an extra bit, bless him, whether they stint him at 
the meals or no. My children can eat as much victuals as 
most, thank God." 

" Well, well, we won't send him out o' reach o' the carrier's 
cart, if other things fit in," said Mr. Tulliver. " But you 
mustn't put a spoke i' the wheel about the washin', if we can't 
get a school near enough. That's the fault I have to find wi' 
you, Bessy : if you see a stick i' the road, you're allays thinkin' 

I you can't step over it. You'd want me not to hire a good 

' wagoner, 'cause he'd got a mole on his face." 

"Dear heart!" said Mrs. Tulliver, in mild surprise, "when 
did I iver make objections to a man because he'd got a mole 
on his face ? I'm sure I'm rather fond of the moles, for my 
brother, as is dead an' gone, had a mole on his brow. But I 
can't remember you iver offering to hire a wagoner with a 
mole, Mr. Tulliver. There was John Gibbs hadn't a mole on 
his face no more than you have, an' I was all for having you 
hire him ji an' so you did hire him, an' if he hadn't died o' th' 
inflammation, as we paid Dr. TurnbuU for attending him, he'd 
very like ha' been driving the wagon now. He might have a 
mole somewhere out o' sight, but how was I to know that, 
Mr. TulUver ?" 

" No, no, Bessy, I didn't mean justly the mole ; I meant it 
to stand for summat else ; but niver mind — ^it's puzzling work, 
talking is. What I'm thinking on is how to find the right 
sort o' school to send Tom to, for I might be ta'en in again, as 
I've been wi' th' academy. I'll have nothing to do wi' a 'ca- 
demy again : whativer school I send Tom to, it sha'n't be a 
'qademy ; it shall be a place where the lads spend their time i' 
summat else besides blacking the family's shoes, and getting 
up the potatoes. It's an uncommon puzzling thing to know 
what school to pick." 

Mr. Tulliver paused a minute or two, and dived with both 

hands into his breeches pockets as if he hoped to find some 

ffuggeation there. Apparently he was not disappointed, for 

^e preaently saidy " i know what rU do — I'll talk it over 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 11 

wi' Riley: he's coming to-morrow t' arbitrate about the 
dam." 

" Well, Mr. Tnlliver, I've put the sheets out for the best bed, 
and Kezia's got 'em hanging at the fire. They aren't the best 
sheets, but they're good enough for any body to sleep in, be 
he who he will ; for as for them best Holland sheets, I should 
repent buying 'em, only^ they'll do to lay us out in. An' if 
you was to die to-morrow, Mr. Tulliver, they're mangled beauti- 
ful, an' all ready, an' smeU o' lavender as it 'ud be a pleasure 
to lay them out ; an' they lie at the left-hand comer o' the big / 
oaken chest, at the back — not as I should trust any body to ♦ 
look 'em out but myself." 

As Mrs. Tulliver uttered the last sentence, she drew a bright 
bunch of keys from her pocket, and singled out one, rubbing 
her thumb and finger up and down it with a placid smile while 
she looked at the clear fire. K Mr. Tulliver had been a sus- 
ceptible man in his conjugal relation, he might have supposed 
that she drew out the key to aid her imagination in anticipa- 
ting the. moment when he would be in a state to justify the 
production of the best Holland sheets. Happily he was not 
so ; he was only susceptible in respect of his right to water- 
power ; moreover, he had the marital habit of not listening 
very closely, and, since his mention of Mr. Riley, had been ap- 
parently occupied in a tactile examination of his woolen stock- 
ings. 

" I think I've hit it, Bessy," was his first remark after a 
short silence. "Riley's as likely a man as any to know o' 
some school ; he's had schooling himself, an' goes about to all 
sorts o' places — arbitratin' and vallyin' and that. And we 
shall have time to talk it over to-morrow night when the busi- 
ness is done. I want Tom to be such a sort o' man as Riley, 
you know — as can talk pretty nigh as well as if it was all wrote 
out for him, and knows a good lot o' words as don't mean 
much, so as you can't lay hold of 'em i' law ; and a good solid 
knowledge o' business too." 

" Well," said Mrs. Tulliver, " so far as talking proper, and 
knowing every thing, and walking with a bend in his back, 
and setting his hair up, I shouldn't mind the lad being brought 
up to that. But them fine-talking men from the big towns 
mostly wear the false shirt-fronts ; they wear a frill tiU it's all 
a mess, and then hide it with a bib ; I know Riley does. And 
then, if Tom's to go and live at Mudport, like Riley, he'll have 
a house with a kitchen hardly big enough to turn in, an' niver 
get a fresh egg for his breakfast, an' sleep up \3m^^ ^ivt <5 

Btaij«-^r four, for what I know — an' be hwmt Xo 9Le.«.\Xi\i^tec^ 
Ae can get down.'* 



12 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

" No, no," sfdd Mr. Tulliver, " I've no thoughts of his going 
to Mudport : I mean him to set up his office at St. Ogg's, close 
by us, an' live at home. But," continued Mr. Tulliver, after a 
pause, " what I'm a bit afraid on is, as Tom hasn't got the 
right sort o' brains for a smart fellow. I doubt he's a bit 
slowish. He takes after your family, Bessy." 

" Yes, that he does," said Mrs. Tulliver, accepting the last 
proposition entirely on its own merits; "he's wonderful for 
Hking a deal o' salt in his broth. That was my brother's way, 
and my father's before him." 

"It seems a bit of a pity, though," said Mr. Tulliver, "as 
the lad should take after the mother's side istead o' the little 
wench. That's the worst on't wi' the crossing o' breeds : you 
can never justly 6alkilate what'U come on't. The little im 
takes after my side now ; she's twice as 'cute as Tom. Too 
'cute for a woman, I'm afraid," continued Mr. Tulliver, turn- 
ing his head dubiously first on one side and then on the other, 
"fi's no mischief much while she's a little un, but an over-'cute 
woman's no better nor a long-tailed sheep— she'll fetch none 
the bigger price for that." 

" Yes, it is B, mischief while she's a little un, Mr. Tulliver, for 
it all runs to naughtiness. How to keep her in a clean pinafore 
two hours together passes my cunning. An', now you put me 
i' mind," continued Mrs. Tulliver, rising and going to the win- 
dow, " I don't know where she is now, an' it's pretty nigh tea- 
time. Ah ! I thought so — wanderin' up an' down by the wa- 
ter, like a wild thing : she'll tumble in some day." 

Mrs. Tulliver rapped the window sharply, beckoned, and 
shook her head — b. process which she repeated more than once 
before she returned to her chair. 

" You talk o' 'cuteness, Mr. Tulliver," she observed as she sat 

.^ down, " but I'm sure the child's half an idiot i' some things ; 

' for if I send her up stairs to fetch any thing, she forgets what 

^ she's gone for, an' perhaps 'ull sit down on the floor i' the sun- 

^ shine an' plait her hair an' sing to herself like a Bedlam crea- 

tur', all the while I'm waiting for her down stairs. That niver 

run i' my family, thank God, no more nor a brown skin as 

makes her look Uke a mulatter. I don't Uke to fly i' the face 

o' Providence, but it seems hard as I should have but one gell, 

an' her so comical." 

" Pooh ! nonsense !" said Mr. Tulliver ; " she's a straight 
black-eyed wench as any body need wish to see. I don't know 
i' what she's behind other folks's children ; and she can read al- 
jnost B8 well as the parson." 

^^Bat her bair won't curl all I can do mth it^ and she's so 
^'onzy about baving it put i' paper, and T\e «>v3lc)cl NiotV ^& 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 13 

never was to make her stand and have it pinched with th' 
irons." 

" Cut it off— cut it off short," said the father, rashly. 

*' How can you talk so, Mr. Tulliver ? She's too big a gell, 
gone nine, and tall of her age, to have her hair cut short ; an' 
3iere's her cousin Lucy's got a row o' curls round her head, 
an' not a hair out o' place. It seems hard as my sister Deane 
should have that pretty child ; I'm sure Lucy takes more after 
me nor my own child does. Maggie, Maggie," continued the 
mother, in a tone of half-coaxing fretfulness, as this small mis- ■ ^ 
take of nature entered the room, " where's the use o' my tell-^ r 
mg you to keep away from the water ? You'll tumble in and 
be A'ownded some day, an' then you'll be sorry you didn't do 
as mother told you." 

Maggie's hair, as she threw off her bonnet, painfully confirm- 
ed her mother's accusation : Mrs. Tulliver, desiring her daugh- 
ter to have a curled crop, " like other folks's children," had had 
it cut too short in front to be pushed behind the ears ; and as 
it was usually straight an hour after it had been taken out of 
paper, Maggie was incessantly tossing her head to keep the 
dark heavy locks out of her gleaming black eyes — an action 
which gave her very much the air of a small Shetland pony. 

" Oh dear, oh dear, Maggie, what are you thinkin' of, to 
throw your bonnet down there ? Take it up stairs, there's a 
good gell, an' let your hair be brushed, an' put your other pin- 
afore on, an' change your shoes — do, for shame ; an' come an* 
go on with your patchwork, like a little lady." 

" Oh mother," said Maggie, in a vehemently cross tone, "I 
don't want to do my patchwork." 

" What ! not your pretty patchwork, to make a counterpane 
for your aunt Glegg ?" 

" It's foolish work," said Maggie, with a toss of her mane — 
" tearing things to pieces to sew 'em together again. And I 
don't want to do any thing for my aunt Glegg — ^I don't like . 
her." 

Exit Maggie, dragging her bonnet by the string, while Mr. 
Tulliver laughs audibly. 

" I wonder at you, as you'll laugh at her, Mr. Tulliver," said 
the mother, with feeble fretfulness in her tone. " You encour- 
age her i' naughtiness. An' her aunts will have it as it's me 
spoils her." 

Mrs. Tulliver was what is called a good-tempered person — 
never cried, when she was a baby, on any slighter ground than 
hunger and pins ; and from the cradle upward hai\>^cii\jft^siMcLN^ 
Mr, plninp, and dull-witted — in short, the ftowet oi^iet fesK&:5 
i&r beauty and amiability. But milk and imldTie^a axe xioX.^^ 



14 THS MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

best things for keeping, and when they turn only a little sour, 
they may disagree with young stomachs seriously. I have 
often wondered whether those early Madonnas of Raphael, 
with the blond faces and somewhat stupid expression, kept 
their placidity undisturbed when their strong-limbed, strong- 
willed boys got a little too old to do without clothing. I think 
they must have been given to feeble remonstrance, getting 
more and more peevish as it became more and more ineftectual. 



Chapter m. 

ME. EILEY GIVES HIS ADVICE CONCERNING A SCHOOL FOB TOM. 

The gentleman in the ample white cravat and shirt-frill, 
taking his brandy and water so pleasantly with his good friend 
Tulliver, is Mr. Riley, a gentleman with a waxen complexion 
and fat hands, rather highly educated for an auctioneer and 
appraiser, but large-hearted enough to show a great deal of 
honhommie toward simple country acquaintances of hospitable 
habits. Mr. Riley spoke of such acquaintances kindly as "peo- 
ple of the old school." 

The conversation had come to a pause. Mr. Tulliver, not 
without a particular reason, had abstained from a seventh re- 
cital of the cool retort by which Riley had shown himself too 
many for Dix, and how Wakem had had his comb cut for once 
in his life, now the business of the dam had been settled by 
arbitration, and how there never would have been any dispute 
at all about the height of water if every body was what they 
should be, and Old Harry hadn't made the lawyers. Mr. Tul- 
liver was, on the whole, a man of safe traditional opinions ; but 
on one or two points he had trusted to his imassisted intellect, 
and had arrived at several questionable conclusions— among 
the rest, that rats, weevils, and lawyers were created by Old 
Harry. Ilnhappily, he had no one to tell him that this was 
rampant Manichseism, else he might have seen his error. But 
to-day it was clear that the good principle was triumphant : 
this affair of the water-power had been a tangled business some- 
how, for all it seemed — ^look at it one way — as plain as water's 
water ; but, big a puzzle as it was, it hadn't got the better of 
Riley. Mr. Tulliver took his brandy and water a little strong- 
er than usual, and, for a man who might be supposed to have 
a few hundreds lying idle at his banker's, was rather incau- 
tionsly open in expressing his high estimate of his fiiend's 
business talents. 
But the dam was a subject of conveTOa\ioii\!!Dka\i^o\i\.^\fc^'^\ 



THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 15 

it could always be taken up again at the same point, and ex- 
actly in the same condition ; and there was another subject, as 
you know, on which Mr. Tulliver was in pressing want of Mr. 
Riley's advice. This was his particular reason for remaining 
silent for a short space after his last draught, and rubbing his 
knees in a meditative manner. He was not a man to make an 
abrupt transition. This was a puzzling world, as he often said, 
and rf you drive your wagon in a hurry, you may hght on an 
awkward comer. Mr. Riley, meanwhile, was not impatient. 
Why should he be ? Even Hotspur, one would think, must 
have been patient in his slippers on a warm hearth, taking 
copious snuff, and sipping gratuitous brandy and water. 

" There's a thing I've got i' my head," said Mr. Tulliver at 
last, in rather a lower tone than usual, as he turned his head 
and looked steadfastly at his companion. 

" Ah !" said Mr. Riley, in a tone of mild interest. He was a 
man with heavy waxen eyelids and high-arched eyebrows, look- 
ing exactly the same under all circumstances. This immova- 
bility of face, and the habit of taking a pinch of snuff before he 
gave an answer, made him trebly oracular to Mr. Tulliver. 

"It's a very particular thing," he went on; "it's about my 
boy Tom." 

At the sound of this name, Maggie, who was seated on a 
low stool close by the fire, with a large book open on her lap, 
shook her heavy hair back and looked up eagerly. There were 
few sounds that roused Maggie when she was dreaming over 
her book, but Tom's name served as well as the shrillest whis- 
tle : in an instant she was on the watch, with gleaming eyes, 
like a Skye terrier suspecting mischief, or, at all events, de- 
termined to fly at any one who threatened it toward Tom. 

" You see, I want to put him to a new school at Midsum- 
mer," said Mr. Tulliver ; " he's comin' away from the 'cademy 
at Ladvday, an' I shall let him run loose for a quarter ; but 
after that 1 want to send him to a downright good school, 
where they'll make a scholard of him." 

" Well," said Mr. Riley, " there's no greater advantage you 
can give him than a good education. Not," he added, with 
polite significance, " not that a man can't be an excellent mill- 
er and farmer, and a shrewd sensible fellow into the bargain, 
without much help from the schoolmaster." 

" I believe ^ou," said Mr. Tulliver, winking, and turning his 
head on one side, " but that's where it is. I don't mean Tom 
to be a miller and farmer. I see no fun i' that : why, if I made 
him a miller an' farmer, he'd be expectin' to take to tb.^ t[^^ 
the land, an' arhintiD^ at me as it was time fox me to \^7 Vj ^^ 
thinlr o'nij^ latter end. Nay^ nay, I've seen enougja. tf tJaafc "^ 



16 THE MUIi ON THE FLOSS. 

sons. Fll never pull my coat off before I go to bed. I shall 
give Tom an eddication an' put him to a business, as he may- 
make a nest for himself, an' not want to push me out o' mine. 
Pretty well if he gets it when I'm dead an' gone. I sha'n't be 
put off wi' spoon-meat afore I've lost my teeth." 

This was evidently a point on which Mr. Tulliver felt strong- 
ly, and the impetus which had given unusual rapidity and em- 
phasis to his speech showed itself still unexhausted for some 
minutes afterward in a defiant motion of the head from side 
to side, and an occasional " Nay, nay^" like a subsiding growl. 

These angry symptoms were keenly observed by Maggie, 
and cut her to the quick. Tom, it appeared, was supposed 
capable of turning his father out of doors, and of makmg the 
future in some way tragic by his wickedness. This was not 
to be borne ; and Maggie jumped up from her stool, forgetting 
all about her heavy book, which fell with a bang within the 
fender ; and going up between her father's knees, said, in a 
half-crying, half-indignant voice, 

"Father, Tom wouldn't be naughty to you ever; I know 
he wouldn't," 

Mrs. Tulliver was out of the room superintending a choice 
supper-dish, and Mr. Tulliver's heart was touched, so Maggie 
was not scolded about the book. Mr. Riley quietly picked it 
up and looked at it, while the father laughed with a certain 
tenderness in his hard-lined face, and patted his little girl on 
the back, and then held her hands and kept her between his 
knees. 

" What ! they mustn't say any harm o' Tom, eh ?" said Mr. 
Tulliver, looking at Maggie with a twinkling eye. Then, in a 
lower- voice, turning to Mr. Riley, as though Maggie couldn't 
hear, " She understands what one's talking about so as never 
was. And you should hear her read — straight off, as if she 
knowed it all beforehand. And allays at her book ! But it's 
)ad — ^it's bad," Mr. TulUver added, sadly, checking this blam- 
ible exultation ; " a woman's no business wi' being so clever ; 
it'll turn to trouble, I doubt. But, bless you I" — ^here the ex- 
ultation was clearly recovering the mastery — " she'll read the 
books and understand 'em better nor half the folks as are 
growed up." 

Maggie's cheeks began to flush with triumphant excite- 
ment : she thought Mr. Riley would have a respect for her 
now ; it had been evident that he thought nothing of her be- 
fore. 

Mr. Riley was turning over the leaves of the book, and she 
could make nothing of his face, with its high-arched eyebrows ; 
but he presently looked at her and said, 



THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 17 

<^Come, come and tell me something about this book; here 
are some pictures — ^I want to know what they mean." 

Maggie, with deepening color, went without hesitation to 
Mr. Riley's elbow and looked over the book, eagerly seizing 
one comer and tossing back her mane, while she said, 

" Oh, I'll tell you what that means. It's a dreadful picture, 
isn't it ? But I can't help looking at it. That old woman in 
the water's a witch — ^they've put her in to find out whether 
she's a witch or no, and if she swims she's a witch, and if she's 
drowned — ^and killed, you know — she's innocent, and not a 
witch, but only a poor silly old woman. But what good 
would it do her then, you know, when she was drowned ? 
Only, I suppose, she'd go to heaven, and God would make it 
up to her. And this dreadful blacksmith with his arms akim- 
bo, laughing — oh, isn't he ugly ? — ^I'U tell you what he is. He's 
the devil reaUxf* (here Maggie's voice became louder and more 
emphatic), " and not a right blacksmith ; for the devil takes 
the shape of wicked men, and walks about and sets people do- 
ing wicked things, and he's oftener in the shape of a bad man 
than any other, because, you know, if people saw he was the 
devil, and he roared at 'em, they'd run away, and he couldn't 
make 'em do what he pleased." 

Mr. TuUiver had listened to this exposition of Maggie's with 
petrifying wonder. 

*' Why, what book is it the wench has got hold on ?" he 
burst out, at last. 

*' * The History of the Devil,' by Daniel Defoe ; not quite 
the right book for a little girl," said Mr. Riley. " How came 
it among your books, Tulliver ?" 

Maggie looked hurt and discouraged, while her father said, 

" Why, it's one o' the books I bought at Partridge's sale. 
They was all bound alike — ^it's a good binding, you see — and 
I thou^t they'd be all good books. There's Jeremy Taylor's 
* Holy Living and Dying' among 'em; I read in it often of a 
Sunday" (Mr. TulHver felt somehow a familiarity with that 
great writer because his name was Jeremy) ; " and there's a 
lot more of 'em, sermons mostly, I think ; but they've all got 
the same covers, and I thought they were all o' one sample, as 
you may say. But it seems one mustn't judge by th' outside. 
This is a puzzlin' world." 

" Well," said Mr. Riley, in an admonitory patronizing tone, 
as he patted Maggie on the head, "I advise you to put by tlie 
'History of the I)evil,' and read some prettier book. Have 
you no prettier books ?" 

" Oh yesy '' said Maggie^ reviving a little in t\ie deOT^ \»o -rov.- 
dicate the variety of her reading, "I knov? the TesiaSBS'^'^^^^^ i 



the pictures out of my own head, you know. But I've got 
sop's Fables,' and a book about kangaroos and things, and 



18 THE TV n rj. ON THE FLOSS. 

book isn't pretty, but I like the pictures, and I make stories to 

the pic 

«^sop' 

the ' Pilgrim's Progress.' " . . . . 

"Ah ! a beautiful book," said Mr. Riley ; " you can't read a 
^better." 

" Well, but there's a great deal about the devil in that," said 
Maggie, triumphantly, " and I'll show you the picture of him 
in his true shape, as he fought with Christian." 

Maggie ran in an instant to the comer of the room, jumped 
on a chair, and reached down from the small bookcase a shab- 
by old copy of Bunyan, which opened at once, without the least 
trouble of search, at the picture she wanted. 

" Here he is," she said, running back to Mr. Riley, " and Tom 
colored him for me with his paints when he was at home last 
holidays — ^the body all black, you know, and the eyes red, like 
fire, because he's all fire inside, and it shines out at his eyes." 

" Go, go !" said Mr.Tulliver, peremptorily, beginning to feel 
rather uncomfortable at these free remarks on the personal ap- 
pearance of a being powerful enough to create lawyers ; " shut 
up the book, and let's hear no more o' such talk. It is as I 
thought — ^the child 'uU learn more mischief nor good wi' the 
books. Go — ^go and see after your mother." 

Maggie shut up the book at once with a sense of disgrace ; 
but, not being inclined to see after her mother, she compro- 
mised the matter by going into a dark corner behind her fa- 
ther's chair, and nursing her doll, toward which she had an oc- 
casional fit of fondness in Tom's absence, neglecting its toilette, 
but lavishing so many warm kisses on it that the waxen cheeks 
had a wasted, unhealthy appearance. 

"Did you ever hear the like on't?" said Mr. Tulliver, as 
Maggie retired. " It's a pity but what she'd been the lad — 
she'd ha' been a match for the lawyers, she would. It's the 
wonderful'st thing" — ^here he lowered his voice — " as I picked 
the mother because she wasn't o'er 'cute — ^bein' a good-look- 
ing woman too, an' come of a rare family for managing ; but 
I picked her from her sisters o' purpose, 'cause she was a bit 
weak, like ; for I wasn't agoin' to be told the rights o' things 
by my own fireside. But you see, when a man's got brains 
himself, there's no knowing where they'll run to ; an' a pleas- 
ant sort o' soft woman may go on breeding you stupid lads 
and 'cute wenches till it's like as if the world was turned top- 
syturvy. It's an uncommon puzzlin' thing." 

Mr. Riley's gravity gave way, and he shook a little under 
the application of his pinch of snuff before lie said, 
^'But your Jad's not stupid, ia he? 1 ^a.^ \i\m,\Ai^Ti\ ^^'^ 



THS MILL ON THE FLOSS. 19 

here last, busy making fishing-tackle; he seemed qnite up to 
it." 

" Well, he isn't not to say stupid — ^he's got a notion o' things 
out o' door, an' a sort o' common sense, as he'd lay hold o' 
things by the right handle. But he's slow with his tongue, 
you see, and he reads but poorly, and can't abide the books, 
and spells all wrong, they tell me, an' as shy as can be wi' 
strangers, an' you never hear him say 'cute things like the lit- 
tle wench. Now what I want is to send him to a school where 
they'll make him a bit nimble with his tongue and his pen, and 
make a smart chap of him. I want my son to be even wi' these 
fellows as have got the start o' me with having better school- 
ing. Not but what, if the world had been left as God made 
it, I could ha' seen my way, and held my own wi' the best of 
'em ; but things have got so twisted round and wrapped up i' 
unreasonable words, as am't a bit like 'em, as I'm clean at fault 
often an' often. Every thing winds about so — the more 
straightforrard you are, the more you're puzzled." 

Mr. Tulliver took a draught, swallowed it slowly, and shook 
his head in a melancholy manner, conscious of exemplifying 
the truth that a perfectly sane intellect is hardly at home in 
this insane world. 

" You're quite in the right of it, Tulliver," observed Mr. 
Riley. " Better spend an extra hundred or two on your son's 
education than leave it to him in your will. I know I should 
have tried to do so by a son of mine, if I'd had one, though, 
God knows, I haven't your ready money to play with, Tulli- 
ver ; and I have a houseful of daughters into the bargain." 

" I dare say, now, you know of a school as 'ud be just the 
thing for Tom," said Mr. Tulliver, not diverted from his pur- 
pose by any sympathy with Mr. Riley's deficiency of ready 
cash. 

Mr. Riley took a pinch of snufi^ and kept Mr. Tulliver in 
suspense by a silence that seemed deliberative before he said, 

" I know of a very fine chance for any one that's got the 
necessaiy money, and that's what you have, Tulliver. The 
fact is, I wouldn't recommend any friend of mine to send a 
boy to a regular school if he could afford to do better. But 
if any one wanted his boy to get superior instruction and train- 
ing, where he would be the companion of his master, and that 
master a first-rate fellow, I know his man. I wouldn't mention 
the chance to every body, because I don't think every body 
would succeed in getting it if he were to try ; but I mention 
it to you, Tulliver — between ourselves." 

The fixed iDqniring glance with which Mr.Tx)3\\:vet\v«^'5L\i^^TL 
WBtebing bis ^end^B oracular face became quite eaglet. 



20 THE MILL ON TKB FLOSS. 

"Ay, now, let's hear," he said, adjusting himself m his chair 
with the complacency of a person who is thought worthy of 
important communications. 

" He's an Oxford man," said Mr. Riley, sententiously, shut- 
ting his mouth close, and looking at Mr. Tulliver to observe 
the effect of this stimulating information. 

" What I a parson ?" said Mr. Tulliver, rather doubtfully. 

" Yes — ^and an M.A. The bishop, I understand, thinks very 
highly of him : why, it was the bishop who got him his pres- 
ent curacy." 

" Ah ?" said Mr. Tulliver, to whom one thing was as won- 
derful as another concerning these unfamiliar phenomena. 
" But what can he want wi' Tom, then ?" 
. " Why, the fact is, he's fond of teaching, and wishes to keep 
up his studies, and a clergyman has but little opportunity for 
that in his parochial duties. He's willing to take one or two 
boys as pupils to fill up his time profitably. The boys would 
be quite of the family — the finest thing in the world for them 
— under Stelling's eye continually." 

"But do you think they'd give tho poor lad twice o' pud- 
ding ?" said Mrs. Tulliver, who was now in her place again. 
"He's such a boy for pudding as never was ; an' a growing 
boy like that — ^it's dreadful to think o' their stintin' him." 

" And what money 'ud he want ?" said Mr. Tulliver, whose 
instinct told him that the services of this admirable M.A. would 
bear a high price. 

" Why, I know of a clergyman who asks a hundred and fifty 
with his youngest pupils, and he's not to be mentioned with 
Stelling, the man I speak of. I know, on good authority, that 
one of the chief people at Oxford said, * Stelling might get the 
highest honors if he chose.' But he didn't care about uni- 
versity honors. He's a quiet man — not noisy." 

" Ml ! a deal- better — a deal better," said Mr. Tulliver ; " but 
a hundred and fifty's an uncommon price. I never thought 
o' pavin' so much as that." 

" A good education, let me tell you, Tulliver — a good edu- 
cation is cheap at the money. But Stellmg is moderate in his 
terms — ^he's not a grasping man. I've no doubt he'd take 
your boy at a hundred, and that's what you wouldn't get 
many other clergymen to do. I'll write to him about it, if 
you like." 

Mr. Tulliver rubbed his knees, and looked at the carpet in a 
meditative manner. 

" But belike he's a bachelor," observed Mrs. Tulliver in the 

interval, ^^an^IWe no opinion o' housekeepers. There was my 

brother, as ia dead an' gone, bad a biouftekfte^et oiia^^ «xi' iba 



THB MILL OK THE FLOSS. 21 

took half the feathers oat o' the best bed, an' packed 'em up 
an' sent 'em away. An' it's unknown the linen she made away 
with — Stott her name was. It 'ud break my heart to send 
Tom where there's a housekeeper, an' I hope you won't think 
of it, Mr. Tulliver." 

"You may set your mind at rest on that score, Mrs. Tulliver," 
gaid Mr. Riley, " for Stelling is married to as nice a little wom- 
an as any man need wish i^r a wife. There isn't a kinder lit- 
tle soul in the world ; I know her family well. She has very 
much your complexion — ^light curly hair. She comes of a good 
Mudport family, and it's not every offer that would have been 
acceptable in that quarter. But Stelling's not an every-day 
man. Rather a particulsu: fellow as to the people he chooses 
to be connected with. But I think he would have no objec- 
tion to take your son — ^I think he would not, on my repre- 
sentation." 

"I don't know what he could have against the lad," said 
Mrs. Tulliver, with a slight touch of motherly indignation — " a 
iitee fresh-skinned lad as any body need wish to see." 

" But there's one thing I'm thinkirfg on," said Mr. Tulliver, 
turning his head on one side and looking at Mr. Riley, after a 
long perusal of the carpet. "Wouldn't a parson be almost 
too high-leamt to bring up a lad to be a man o' business ? 
My notion o' the parsons was as they'd got a sort o' learning 
as lay mostly out o' sight. And that isn't what I want for 
Tom. I want him to know figures, and write like print, and 
see into things quick, and know what folks mean, and how to 
wrap things up in words as aren't actionable. It's an uncom- 
mon fine thing, that is," concluded Mr. Tulliver, shaking his 
head, " when you can let a man know what you think of him 
without paying for it." 

" Oh, my dear Tulliver," said Mr. Riley, " you're quite under 
a mistake about the clergy ; all the best schoolmasters are of 
the clergy. The schoolmasters who are not of the clergy are 
a very low set of men generally" . . . 

" Ay, that Jacobs is, at the 'cademy," interposed Mr. TuUiver. 

" To be sure — ^men who have failed in other trades, most 
likely. Now a clergyman is a gentleman by profession and 
education ; and besides that, he has the knowledge that will 
ground a boy, and prepare him for entering on any career with 
credit. There may be some clergymen who are mere book- 
men ; but you may depend upon it, Stelling is not one of them 
— a man that's wide awake, let me tell you. Drop him a hint, 
and that's enough. You talk of figures, now ; you. hvjjvoi q>v^^ 
to say to Stellb^, 'I want my son to be a thoioxx^ ^.TyfllKHv^Xv 
ma/andjrou may leave the rest to him." 



22 THE MILL ON TKB FLOSS. 

Mr. Riley paused a moment, while Mi\ Tulliver, somewhat 
reassured as to clerical tutorship, was inwardly rehearsing to 
an imaginary Mr. Stelling the statement, "I want my son to 
know /rethmetic." 

" You see, my dear Tulliver," Mr. Riley continued, " when 
you get a thoroughly educated man, like Stelling, he's at no 
loss to take up any branch of instruction. When a workman 
knows the use of his tools, he can make a door as well as a 
window." 

" Ay, that's true," said Mr. Tulliver, almost convinced now 
that the clergy must be the best of schoolmasters. 

" Well, I'll teU you what I'U do for you," said Mr. Riley, 
"and I wouldn't do it for every body. I'll see Stelling's 
father-in-law, or^drop him a line when I get back to Brassing, 
to say that you wish to place your boy with his son-in-law, and 
I dare say Stelling will write to you, and send you his terms." 

" But there's no hurry, is there ?" said Mrs. Tulliver ; " for 
I hope, Mr. TuUiver, you won't let Tom begin at his new school 
before Midsummer. He began at the 'cademy at the Ladydarf 
quarter, and you see what good 's come of it." 

" Ay, ay, Bessy, never brew wi' bad malt upo' Michaelmas 
day, else you'll have a poor tap," said Mr. Tulliver, winking 
and smiling at Mr. Riley with the natural pride of a man who 
has a buxom wife conspicuously his inferior in intellect. " But 
it's true there's no hurry ; you've hit it there, Bessy." 

"It might be as well not to defer the arrangement too 
long," said Mr. Riley, quietly, " for Stelling may have proposi- 
tions from other parties, and I know he would not take more 
than two or three boarders, if so many. If I were you, I think 
I would enter on the subject with Stelling at once : there's no 
necessity of sending the boy before Midsummer, but I would 
be on the safe side, and make sure that nobody forestalls you.'* 

" Ay, there's summat in that," said Mr. TuUiver. 

" Father," broke in Maggie, who had stolen unperceived to 
her father's elbow again, listening with parted lips, while she 
held her doll topsy-turvy, and crushed its nose against the 
wood of the chair — "father, is it a long way off where Tom is 
to go ? Sha'n't we ever go to see him ?" 

" I don't know, my wench," said the father, tenderly. " Ask 
Mr. Riley; he knows." 

Maggie came round promptly in front of Mr. Riley, and said, 
" How far is it, please, sir ?" 

" Oh, a long long way off," that gentleman answered, being 
of opinion that children, when they are not naughty, should 
always be spoken to jocosely. " You must borrow the seven- 
leagued boots to get to him." 



THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 23 

'^ That's nonsense !" said Maggie, tossing her head haughti- 
ly, and turning away with the tears springing in her eyes. 
She began to dislike Mr. Riley : it was evident he thought her 
silly and of no consequence. 

" Hush, Maggie, for shame of you, asking questions and 
chattering," said her mother. " Come and sit down on your 
Uttle stool, and hold your tongue, do. But," added Mrs. Tul- 
liver, who had her own alarm awakened, " is it so far off as I 
couldn't wash him and mend him ?" 

"About fifteen miles, that's all," said Mr. Riley. " You can 
drive there and back in a day quite comfortably. X)r — Stell- 
ing is a hospitable, pleasant man ; he'd be glad to have you 
stay." 

" But it's too far off for the linen, I doubt," said Mrs. Tulli- 
ver, sadly. 

The entrance of supper opportunely adjourned this difficul- 
ty, and relieved Mr. Kiley from the labor of suggesting some 
solution or compromise — a, labor which he womd otherwise 
doubtless have undertaken; for, as you perceive, he was a 
man of very obliging manners. And he had really given him- 
self- the trouble of recommending Mr. Stelling to his friend 
Tulliver without any positive expectation of a solid, definite 
advantage resulting to himself, notwithstanding the subtle in- 
dications to the contrary which might have misled a too saga- 
cious observer. For there is nothing more widely misleading 
than sagacity if it happens to get on a wrong scent ; and sagac- 
ity, persuaded that men usually act and speak from distmct 
motives, with a consciously proposed end in view, is certain to 
waste its energies on imaginary game. Plotting covetousness 
and deliberate contrivance, in order to compass a selfish end, 
are nowhere abundant but in the world of the dramatist : they 
demand too intense a mental action for many of our fellow- 
parishioners to be guilty of them. It is easy enough to spoil 
the lives of our neighbors without taking so much trouble : 
ve can do it by lazy acquiescence and lazy omission, by trivial 
fidsities for wnich we hardly know a reason, by small frauds 
naturalized by small extravagances, by maladroit flatteries and 
clumsily improvised insinuations. We live from hand to 
mouth, most of us, with a small family of inunediate desires — 
we do little else than snatch a morsel to satisiy the hungry 
brood, rarely thinking of seed-corn or the next year's crop. 

Mr. Riley was a man of business, and not cold toward his 
own interest, yet even he was more xmder the influence of 
small promptings than of far-sighted designs. He had no pri- 
vate understanding with the Rev. Walter SteUing •, ou \Xi^ ^ic^r 
trary, he kneTT very Uttle of that M.A. and Ina accpiTemsii\& — 



24 THB HILL ON TKE FLOSS. 

not quite enough, perhaps, to warrant so strong a recommend- 
ation of him as he had given to his friend Tulliver. But he be- 
lieved Mr. Stelling to be an excellent classic, for Gadsby had 
said so, and Gadsby's first cousin was an Oxford tutor, which 
was better ground for the belief even than his own immediate 
observation would have been ; for, though Mr. Riley had re- 
ceived a tincture of the classics at the great Mudport free- 
school, and had a sense of understanding Latin generally, his 
comprehension of any particular Latin was not ready. Doubt- 
less there remained a subtle aroma from his juvenile contact 
with the J)e Senectute and the Fourth Book of the .j^Jneid^ but 
it had ceased to be distinctly recognizable as classical, and was 
only perceived in the higher finish and force of his auctioneer- 
ing style. Then, Stelling was an Oxford man, and the Oxford 
men were always — ^no, no, it was the Cambridge men who were 
always good mathematicians. But a man who had had a uni- 
versity education could teach any thing he liked, especially a 
man like Stelling, who had made a speech at a Mudport dinner 
on a political occasion, and had acquitted himself so well that 
it was generally remarked, this son-in-law of Timpson's was a 
sharp fellow. It was to be expected of a Mudport man, from 
the parish of St. Ursula, that he would not omit to do a good 
turn to a son-in-law of Timpson's, for Timpson was one of the 
most useful and influential men in the parish, and had a good 
deal of business, which he knew how to put into the right 
hands. Mr. Riley liked such men, quite apart from any money 
which might be diverted, through their good judgment, from 
less worthy pockets into his own ; and it would be a satisfac- 
tion to him to say to Timpson on his return home, " I've se- 
cured a good pupU for your son-in-law." Timpson had a large 
family of daughters ; Mr. Riley felt for him ; besides, Louisa 
Timpson's face, with its light curls, had been a familiar object 
to him over the pew wainscot on a Sunday for nearly fifteen 
years — ^it was natural that her husband should be a commiend- 
able tutor. Moreover, Mr. Riley knew of no other school- 
master whom he had any ground for recommending in. prefer- 
ence ; whjr, then, should he not recommend Stelling ? His 
friend Tulliver had asked him for an opinion : it is always chill- 
ing, in friendly intercourse, to say you have no opinion to give. 
And if you deliver an opinion at all, it is mere stupidity not to 
do it with an air of conviction and well-founded knowledge. 
You make it your own in uttering it, and naturally get fond 
of it. Thus, Mr. Riley, knowing no harm of Stelling to begin 
with, and wishing him'well, so far as he had any wishes at all 
concerning him, had no sooner recommended hun than he be- 
S^an to think with admiration of a man recommended on such 



THB MILL ON THB FLOSS. 25 

high aatbority, and would soon have gathered so warm an in- 
terest on the subject, that, if Mr. TulSver had in the end de- 
clined to send Tom to Stelling, Mr. Riley would have thought 
his friend of the old school a thoroughly pig-headed fellow. 

If you blame Mr. Riley very severely for giving a recom- 
mendation on such slight grounds, I must say you are rather 
hard upon him. Why should an auctioneer and appraiser 
thirty years ago, who had as good as forgotten his freeschool 
Ladn, be expected to manifest a delicate scrupulosity which is 
not always exhibited by gentlemen of the learned professions, 
even in our present advanced stage of morality ? 

Besides, a man with the milk of human kindness in him can 
scarcely abstain from doing a good-natured action, and one can 
not be good-natured all round. Nature herself occasionally 
quarters an inconvenient parasite on an animal toward whom 
she has otherwise no ill will. What then ? We admire her 
care for the parasite. If Mr. Riley had shrunk from giving a 
reconmiendation that was not based on valid evidence, he would 
not have helped Mr. Stelling to a paying pupil, and that would 
not have been so well for the reverend gentleman. Consider, 
too, that all the pleasant little dim ideas and complacencies — 
of standing well with Tirapson, of dispensing advice when he 
was asked for it, of impressing his fiiend TuUiver with addi- 
tional respect, of saying something, and saying it emphatically, 
with other inappreciably minute ingredients that went along 
with the warm hearth and the brandy and water to make up 
Mr. Riley's consciousness on this occasion — would have been a 
mere bla^. 



CHAPTER IV. 

TOM IS EXPECTED. 

It was a heavy disappointment to Maggie that she was not 
allowed to go vsdth her father in the gig when he went to fetch 
Tom home from the academy ; but the morning was too wet, 
Mrs. Tulliver said, for a little girl to go out in her best bonnet. 
Mag^e took the opposite view very strongly ; and it was a 
direct consequence of this difference of opinion that, when her 
mother was in the act of brushing out the reluctant black crop, 
Maggie suddenly rushed from under her hands and dipped her 
head in a basin of water standing near, in the vindictive de- ; 
termination that there should be no more chance of curls that 
day. 

^Maggie^ Maggie,'' exclaimed Mrs. TnlliveT, Hiltma «too8K» 

B 



s 



V- 26 THB Mm. ON THB FLOSS. 

V and helpless with the brushes on her lap, " what is to become 

of you if you're so naughty ? I'll tell your aunt Glegg and 
your aunt Pullet when they come next week, and they'll never 
love you any more. Oh dear, oh dear, look at your clean pin- 
afore, wet from top to bottom. Folks 'ull think it's a judg- 

. ment on me as I've got such a child — ^they'll think I've done 

C summat wicked." 

Before this remonstrance was finished Maggie was already 
out of hearing, makmg her way toward the great attic that 
ran under the old high-pitched roof, shaking the water from 
her black locks as she ran, like a Skye terrier escaped from his 
bath. This attic was Maggie's favorite retreat on a wet day, 
when the weather was not too cold ; here she fretted out all 
her ill-humors, and talked aloud to the worm-eaten floors and 
the worm-eaten shelves, and the dark rafters festooned with 
cobwebs ; and here she kept a Fetish which she punished for 
all her misfortunes. This was the trunk of a large wooden 
doll, which once stared with the roundest of eyes above the 
reddest of cheeks, but was now entirely defaced by a long ca- 

") reer of vicarious suffering. Three nails driven into the head 
commemorated as many crises in Maggie's nine years of earthly 
struggle, that luxury of vengeance having been suggested to 
her by the picture of Jael destroying Sisera in the old Bible. 
The last nail had been driven in with a fiercer stroke than 
usual, for the Fetish on that occasion represented aunt Glegg. 
But immediately afterward Maggie had reflected that if she 
drove many nails in she would not be so well able to fancy that 
the head was hurt when she knocked it against the wall, nor 
to comfort it, and make believe to poultice it, when her fury 
was abated ; for even aunt Glegg would be pitiable when she 
had been hurt very much, and thoroughly humiliated so as to 
beg her niece's pardon. Smce then she had driven no more 
nails in, but had soothed herself by alternately grinding and 
beating the wooden head against the rough brick of the great 
; chimneys that made two square pillars supporting the roof. 
That was what she did this morning on reaching the attic, 
sobbing all the while with a passion that expelled every other 
form of consciousness — even the memory of the grievance that 
had caused it. As at last the sobs were getting quieter, and 
the grinding less fierce, a sudden beam of sunshine, falling 
through the wire lattice across the worm-eaten shelves, made 
her throw away the Fetish and run to the window. The sun 
was really breaking out ; the sound of the mill seemed cheerful 
again; the granary doors were open; and there was Yap, th^ 
queer white and hrowa terrier, with one ear turned back, trot- 
tuj£^ about and BnaS&ng vaguely aa i£ te "wet^ m search of a 









THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 27 

companion. It was irresistible. Maggie tossed her hair back 
and ran down stairs, seized her bonnet without putting it on, 
peeped, and then dashed along the passage lest she should en- 
counter her mother, and was quickly out in the yard, whirling 
round like a Pythoness, and singing as she whirled, "Yap, 
Yap, Tom's coming home I" while Yap danced and barked 
round her, as much as to say, if there was any noise wanted 
he was the dog for it. 

" Hegh, hegh, miss, you'll make yourself giddy, an' tumble 
down r the dirt," said Luke, the head miller, a tall, broad- 
shouldered man of forty, black-eyed and black-haired, subdued 
by a general mealiness like an auricula. 

Maggie paused in her whirling and said, staggering a little, 
" Oh no, it doesn't make me giddy, Luke ; may I go into the 
mill with you ?" 

Maggie loved to linger in the great spaces of the mill, and 
often came out with her black hair powdered to a soft white- 
ness that made her dark eyes flash out with a new fire. The 
resolute din, the unresting motion of the great stones, giving 
her a dim delicious awe as at the presence of an uncontrollable 
force — ^the meal forever pouring, pouring — the fine white pow- 
der softening all surfaces, and making the very spider-nets look 
like a faery lacework — ^the sweet pure scent of the meal — all 
helped to make Maggie feel that the mill was a little world 
apsurt from her outside every-day life. The spiders were es- 
pecially a subject of speculation with her. She wondered if 
they had any relations outside the mill, for in that case there 
must be a painful difficulty in their family intercourse — a fat 
and floury spider, accustomed to take his fly well dusted with 
meal, must suffer a little at a cousin's table where the fly was 
au noMdrd^ and the lady-spiders must be mutually shocked at 
each other's appearance. But the part of the mill she liked 
best was the topmost story — ^the corn-hutch, where there were 
the great heaps of grain, which she could sit on and slide down 
continually. She was in the habit of taking this recreation as 
she conversed with Luke, to whom she was very communicar 
tive, wishing him to think well of her understanding, as her > 
^therdid. ^ 

Perhaps she felt it necessary to recover her position with 
him on the present occasion, for, as she sat sliding on the heap 
of m*ain near which he was busying himself, she said, at that 
shnll pitch which was requisite m mill-society, 

" I think you never read any book but the Bible — did you, 
Luke?" 

" Nay, miss — an' not much o' that " said Luke, m^ ^^'^ 
franknaflft *^rm no reader j I arn't." 



28 THB HILL ON THB FLOSS. 

"But if I lent you one of my books, Luke? Fve not got 
any ven/jprettj books that would be easy for you to read, but 
there's* 'Pug's Tour of Europe' — ^that would tell you all about 
the different sorts of people in the world, and if you didn't un- 
derstand the reading, the pictures would help you — ^they show 
the looks and ways of the people, and what they do. There 
are the Dutchmen, very fat, and smoking, you know — ^and one 
sitting on a barrel." 

" Nay, miss, Fn no opinion o' Dutchmen. There ben't much 
good i' knowin' about themP 

" But they're our fellow-creatures, Luke — ^we ought to know 
about our fellow-creatures." 

" Not much o' fellow-creatures, I think, miss ; all I know — 
my old master, as war a knowin' man, used to say, says he, ' K 
e'er I sow my wheat wi'out brinin', I'm a Dutchman,' says he ; 
an' that war as much as to say as a Dutchman wur a fool, or 
next door. Nay, nay, I arn't goin' to bother mysen about 
Dutchmen. There's fools enoo — an' rogues enoo— wi'out look- 
in' i' books for 'em." 

" Oh, well," said Maggie, rather foiled by Luke's unexpect- 
edly decided views about Dutchmen, " perhaps you would like 
* Animated Nature' better : that's not Dutchmen, you know, 
but elephants, and kangaroos, and the civet cat, and the sun- 
fish, and a bird sitting on its tai^ — ^I forget its name. There 
are countries fuU of those creatures, instead of horses and cows, 
you know. Shouldn't you like to know about them, Luke ?" 

" Nay, miss, I'n got to keep count o' the flour an' com — ^I 
can't do wi' knowin' so many things besides my work. That's 
what brings folk to the gallows — ^knowin' every thing but what 
they'n got to get their bread by. An' they're mostly lies, I 
think, what's printed i' the books : them printed sheets are, 
anyhow, as the men cry i' the streets." 

" Why, you're like my brother Tom, Luke," said Maggie, 

wishing to turn the conversation agreeably ; " Tom's not fond 

of reading. I love Tom so dearly, Luke — ^better than any body 

^; else in the world. When he grows up, I shall keep his house, 

V and we shall always live together. I can tell him every thing 

(^ he doesn't know. But I thmk Tom's clever, for all he doesn't 

like books : he makes beautiful whipcord and rabbit-pens." 

" Ah !" said Luke, " but he'U be fine an' vexed, as the rabbits 
are all dead." 

" Dead !" screamed Maggie, jumping up from her sliding seat 
on the com. " Oh dear, Luke I What ! the lop-eared'^ one, 
and the spotted doe that Tom spent all his money to buy ?" 

^^As dead bb moles," said Luke, fetching his comparison from 
the unmistakable corpses nailed to the BXabW^dll. 



THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 29 

^ Oh dear, Luke,'' said Maggie, in a piteous tone, while the 
tears rolled down her cheek, " Tom told me to take care of 'em, 
and I forgot. What shall I do ?" 

" Well, you see, miss, they were in that far tool-house, an' it 
was nobody's business to see to 'em. I reckon Master Tom 
told Harry to feed 'em, but there's no counting on Harry — he^a 
a offal creatur as iver come about the primises, he is. He re- 
members nothing but his own inside — an' I wish it 'ud gripe 
hun." 

'' Oh, Luke, Tom told me to be sure and remember the rab- 
bits every day ; but how could I, when they did not come into 
my head, you Imow ? Oh, he will be so angry with me, I know 
he will, and so sorry about his rabbits — and so am I sorry. 
Oh, what shaU I do ?" 

" Don't you fret, miss," said Luke, soothingly ; " they're nash 
things, them lop-eared rabbits — they'd happen ha' died if they'd 
been fed. Things out of natur niver thrive : ' God A'mighty 
doesn't like 'em. He made the rabbits' ears to lie back, an' it's 
nothin' but contrariness to make 'em hing down like a mastiff 
dog's. Master Tom 'uU know better nor buy such things an- 
other time. Don't you fret, miss. WiU you come along home 
wi' me and see my wife ? I'm agoin' this minute." 

The invitation offered an agreeable distraction to Maggie's 
grief, and her tears gradually subsided as she trotted along by 
Luke's side to his pleasant cottage, which stood, with its apple 
and pear trees, and with the added dignity of a lean-to pig-sty, 
close by the brink of the Ripple. Mrs. Moggs, Luke's wife, 
was a decidedly agreeable acquaintance. She exhibited her 
hospitality in bread and treacle, and possessed various works 
of art. Maggie actually forgot that she had any special cause 
of sadness this morning, as she stood on a chair to look at a 
remarkable series of pictures representing the Prodigal Son in 
the costume of Sir Charles Grandison, except that, as might 
have been expected from his defective moral character, he had 
not, like that accomplished hero, the taste and strength of mind 
to dispense with a wig. But the indefinable weight the dead 
rabbits had left on her mind caused her to feel more than iisual 
pity for the career of this weak young man, particularly when 
she looked at the picture where he leaned against a tree with 
a flaccid appearance, his knee-breeches unbuttoned and his wig 
awry, while the swine, apparently of some foreign breed, seem- 
ed to insult him by their good spirits over their feast of husks. 

" I am very glad his father took him back again — aren't you, 
Luke?" she s^d. "For he was very sorry, ^ou \aiO^ ^ «xA 
wouldn't do wrong againJ^ 

''Eb, miss," said Luke, "he'd be no greal E\i'8ke^\ SlOn5^X. 
Jet'B feyther do what be would for him " 



so THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

That was a painful thought to Maggie, and she wished much 
that the subsequent history of the young man had been left a 
blank. 



CHAPTER V. 

TOM COMES HOME. 

Tom was to arrive early in the afternoon, and there was an- 
other fluttering heart besides Maggie's when it was late enough 
for the sound of the gig-wheels to be expected ; for if Mrs. 
Tulliver had a strong feeling, it was fondness for her boy. At 
last the sound came — the quick, light bowling of the gig- wheels 
— and in spite of the wind, which was blowing the clouds about, 
and was not likely to respect Mrs. Tulliver's curls and cap- 
strings, she came outside the door, and even held her hand on 
Maggie's offending head, forgetting all the griefs of the morn- 
ing. 

" There he is, my sweet lad ! But Lord ha' mercy ! he's got 
never a collar on ; it's been lost on the road, I'll be bound, and 
spoilt the set." 

Mrs. Tulliver stood with her arms open ; Maggie jumped first 
on one leg and then on the other ; while Tom descended from 
the gig, and said, with masculine reticence as to the tender 
emotions, " Hallo ! Yap — what ! are you there ?" 

Nevertheless, he submitted to be kissed willingly enough, 
though Maggie hung on his neck in rather a strangling fashion, 
while liis blue-gray eyes wandered toward the croft, and the 
lambs, and the river, where he promised himself that he would 
begin to fish the first thing to-morrow morning. He was one 
of those lads that grow every where in England, and, at twelve 
or thirteen years of age, look as much alike as goslings — a lad 
with light-brown hair, cheeks of cream and roses, full lips, in- 
determinate nose and eyebrows — a physiognomy in which it 
seems impossible to discern any thing but the generic charac- 
ter of boyhood ; as different as possible from poor Maggie's 
phiz, which Nature seemed to have moulded and colored with 
the most decided intention. But that same Nature has the 
deep cunning which hides itself under the appearance of open- 
ness, so that simple people think they can see through her quite 
well, and all the while she is secretly preparing a refutation of 
their confident prophecies. Under these average boyish phys- 
jq^omies that she seems to turn off by the groSs, she conceals 
some of her most rigid, inflexible purposes, some of her most 
tinmodi£able characters ; and the dark-eye9i, d^xsicyasXx^xjvN'i^ 



THE HILL ON THB FLOSS. ^ 31 

rebellions girl may after all turn out to be a passive being 
compared with this pink and white bit of masculmity with the 
indeterminate features. 

" Maggie," said Tom, confidentially, taking her into a comer 
as soon as his mother was gone out to examine his box, and 
the warm parlor had taken off the chill he had felt from the 
long drive, " you don't know what I've got in my pockets," 
nodding his head up and down as a means of rousing her 
sense of mystery. 

" No," said Maggie. " How stodgy they look, Tom ! Is it 
marls (marbles) or cobnuts?" Maggie's heart sank a little, 
because Tom always said it was " no good" playing with her 
at those games — she played so badly. 

" Marls ! no ; Fve swopped all my marls with the little fel- 
lows, and cobnuts are no fun, you silly, only when the nuts are 
green. But see here!" He drew something half out of his 
right-hand pocket. 

" What IS it ?" said Maggie, in a whisper. " I can see noth- 
ing but a bit of yellow." 

"Why, it's . . . a . . . new . . . guess, Maggie." 

" Oh, I earCt guess, Tom," said Maggie, impatiently. 

"Don't be a spitfire, else I won't tell you," said Tom, thrust- 
ing his hand back into his pocket, and looking determined. 

" No, Tom," said Maggie, imploringly, laying hold of the 
arm that was held stiffly m the pocket. " I'm not cross, Tom ; 
it was only because I can't bear guessing. Please be good to 
me." 

Tom's arm slowly relaxed, and he said, " Well, then, it's a 
new fish-line — ^two new uns — one for you, Maggie, all to your- 
self. I wouldn't go halves in the toffee and gingerbread on 
purpose to save the money ; and Gibson and Spouncer fought 
with me because I wouldn't. And here's hooks — see here ! 
.... I say, woi^t we go and fish to-morrow down by Round 
Pool? And you shall catch your own fish, Maggie, and put 
the worms on, and every thing : won't it be fun?" 

Maggie's answer was to throw her arms around Tom's neck 
and hug him, and hold her cheek against his without speaking, 
while he slowly unwoimd some of the line, saying, after a pause, 

" Wasn't I a good brother, now, to buy you a line all to 
yourself? You know, I needn't have bought it if I hadn't 
hked." 

" Yes, very, very good . . . . I c?o love you, Tom." 

Tom had put the line back in his pocket, and was looking at 
the hooks one by on% before he spoke again. 

"And the feUows fought me because I 'WOTji.dDLV* ^y^^\si 
about tb& toffee.'^ 



82 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

" Oh dear ! I wish they wouldn't fight at your school, Tom. 
Didn't it hurt you ?" 

" Hurt me ? no," said Tom, putting up the hooks again, tak- 
ing out a large pocket-knife, and slowly opening the largest 
blade, which he looked at meditatively as he rubbed his finger 
along it. Then he added, 

" I gave Spouncer a black eye, I know — ^that's what he got 
by wanting to leather me ; I wasn't going to go halves because 
any body leathered me." 

" Oh, how brave you are, Tom ! I think you're like Samson. 
If there came a lion roaring at me, I think you'd fight him — 
wouldn't you, Tom ?" 

"How can a lion come roaring at you, you silly thing? 
There's no lions only in the shows." 

" No ; but if we were in the lion countries — ^I mean, in Af- 
rica, where it's very hot — ^the lions eat people there. I can 
show it you in the book where I read it." 

" Well, I should get a gun and shoot him." 

." But if you hadn't got a gun — we might have gone out, you 
know, not thinking, just as we go fishing ; and then a great 
lion might run toward us roaring, and we couldn't get away 
from him. What should you do, Tom ?" 

Tom paused, and at last turned away contemptuously, say- 
ing, " But the lion ^sn'^ coming. What's the use of talking ?" 

" But I like to fancy how it would be," said Maggie, follow- 
ing him. " Just think what you would do, Tom." 

"Oh, don't bother, Maggie! you're such a silly — ^I shall go 
and see my rabbits." 

Maggie's heart began to flutter with fear. She dared not 
tell the sad truth at once, but she walked after Tom in trem- 
bling silence as he went out, thinking how she could tell him 
the news so as to soften at once his sorrow and his anger ; for 
Maggie dreaded Tom's anger of all things — ^it was quite a dif- 
ferent anger from her own. 

" Tom," she said, timidly, when they were out of doors, 
" how much money did you give for your rabbits ?" 

" Two half crowns and a sixpence," said Tom, promptly. 

" I think I've got a great deal more than that in my steel 
purse up stairs. I'll ask mother to give it you." 

" What for ?" said Tom. " I don't want ycmr money, you 
silly thing. I've got a great deal more money than you, be- 
cause I'm a boy. I always have half sovereigns and sovereigns 
for my Christmas boxes, because I shall be a man, and you 
only have five-shilling pieces, because you're only a girl." 

" WeW, but, Tomr— if mother would let me give you two 
half crowns and a sixpence out of my pxxxa^ to ^ut into your 



THS MILL ON THB FLOSS. 38 

pocket to spend, you know, and buy some more rabbits with 
itr 

** More rabbits ? I don't want any more." 

*' Oh, but, Tom, they're all dead." 

Tom stopped immediately in his walk |ind turned round to- 
ward Maggie. " You forgot to feed 'em, then, and Harry for- 
got ?" he ssdd, his color heightening for a moment, but soon 
subsiding. " I'll pitch into Harry— I'll have him turned away. 
And I don't love you, Maggie. You sha'n't go fishing with 
me to-morrow. I told you to go and see the rabbits every 
day." He walked on again. 

" Yes, but I forgot — and I couldn't help it, indeed, Tom. 
Tm so very sorry," said Maggie, while the tears rushed fast. 

" You're a naughty girl," skaid Tom, severely, " and I'm sorry 
I boughtyou the fish-une. I don't love you." 

" Oh, Tom, it's very cruel," sobbed Maggie. " I'd forgive 
you if you forgot any thing — ^I wouldn't mind what you did 
— ^I'd forgive you and love you." 

" Yes, you're a silly ; but I never do forget things — ^J don't." 

" Oh, please forgive me, Tom ; my heart will break," said 
Maggie, shaking with sobs; clinging to Tom's arm, and laying 
her wet cheek on his shoulder. 

Tom. shook her o^ and stopped again, saying in a peremp- 
tory tone, "Now, Maggie, you just listen. Aren't I a good 
brother to you ?" 

" Ye-ye-es," sobbed Maggie, her chin rising and falling con- 
vulsively. 

" Didji't I think about your fish-line all this quarter, and 
mean to buy it, and saved my money o' purpose, and wouldn't 
go halves in the toffee, and Spouncer fought me because I 
wouldn't ?" 

" Ye-ye-es . . . and I . . . lo-lo-love you so, Tom." 

**But you're a naughty girl. Last holidays you licked the , 
paint off my lozenge-box, and the holidays before that you let "^ 
the boat drag my fish-line down when I set you to watch it, 
and you pushed your head through my kite, all for nothing." 

" But I didn't mean," said Maggie ; " I couldn't help it." 

*' Yes, you could," #^d Tom, "if you'd minded what you 
were doing. And you're a naughty girl, and you sha'n't go 
fishing with me to-morrow." 

With this terrible conclusion, Tom ran away from Maggie 
toward the mill, meaning to greet Luke there, and complain 
to him of Harry. 

Maggie stood motionless, except from her soba^foY ^kTciseoX*^ 
or two ; then she tnnied round and ran into t\ie Idoxva^, ^sA \k^ 
to her attic, where she sat on the flooT, and loA "^«t \v«» 

62 




84 THE MILL pN THE FLOSS. 

against the worm-eaten shelf, with a crushing sense of misery. 
Tom was come home, and she had thought how happy she 
should be, and now he was cruel to her. What use was any 
thmg if Tom didn't love her ? Oh, he was very cruel ! Hadn't 
she wanted to give him the money, and said how very sorry 
she was ? She knew she was naughty to her mother, but she 
had never been naughty to Tom — had never mearU to be 
naughty to him. 

" Oh, he is cruel !" Maggie sobbed aloud, finding a wretch- 
ed pleasure in the hollow resonance that came through the 
long empty space of the attic. She never thought of beating 
or grinding her Fetish ; she was too miserable to be angry. 

These bitter sorrows of childhood ! when sorrow is all new 
and strange, when hope has not yet got wings to fly beyond 
the days and weeks, and the space from summer to summer 
seems measureless. 

Maggie soon thought she had been hours in the attic, and it 
must be teatime, and they were all having their tea, and not 
thinking of her. Well, then, she would stay up there and starve 
herself— hide herself behind the tub, and stay there all night; 
and then they would all be frightened, and Tom would be sorry. 
Thus Maggie thought in the pride of her heart, as she crept be- 
hind the tub ; but presently she began to cry again at the idea 
that they didn't mind her being there. If she went down again 
to Tom now, would he forgive her ? Perhaps her father would 
be there, and he would take her part. But, then, she wanted 
Tom to forgive her because he loved her, not because his father 
told him. No, she would never go down if Tom didn't come 
' to fetch her. This resolution lasted in great intensity for five 
^ I dark minutes behind the tub ; but then the need of being loved, 
^ V the strongest need in poor Maggie's nature, began to wrestle 
with her pride, and soon threw it. She crept from behind her 
tub into the twilight of the long attic, but just then she heard 
a quick footstep on the stairs. 

Tom had been too much interested in his talk with Luke, in 
going the round of the premises, walking in and out where he 
pleased, and whittling sticks without any particular reason, ex- 
cept that he didn't \mttle sticks at sch#DJ, to think of Maggie 
and the effect his anger had produced on her. He meant to 
punish her, and that business having been performed, he occu- 
pied himself with other matters, like a practical person. But 
when he had been called in to tea, his father said, " Why, 
Where's the little wench ?" and Mrs. Tulliver, almost at the 
same moment, said, " Where's your little sister ?" both of them 
having supposed that Maggie and Tom had been together all 
the afternoon. 



TEUS MILL OJSr THB FLOSS. 35 

*' I don't know," said Tom. He didn't want to " tell" on 
Maggie, though he was angry with her ; for Tom Tulliver was 
a lad of honor. 

** What ! hasn't she been playing with you all this while ?" 
said the father. " She'd been thinking o' nothing but your com- 
ing home." 

" I haven't seen her this two hours," says Tom, commencing 
on the plum-cake. 

*' Goodness heart! she's got drownded," exclaimed Mrs. 
Tulliyer, rising fi*om her seat and running to the window. 
" How could you let her do so ?" she added, as became a fear- 
ful woman, accusing she didn't know whom of she didn't know 

wh0.t* . 

". Nay, n^y,fihe's none drownded," said Mr. Tulliver. " You've 
been naughty to her, I doubt, Tom ?" 

" Tm sure I haven't, fiither," said Tom, indignantly. " I 
think she's in the house." 

" Perhaps up in that attic," sjud Mrs. Tulliver, " a-singing 
and talking to herself, and forgetting all about mealtimes." 

" You go and fetch her down, Tom," said Mr. Tulliver, 
rather sharply, his perspicacity or his fatherly fondness for 
Maggie making him suspect that the lad had been rather hard 
upon "the little un," else she would never have left his -side. 
" And be good to her, do you hear ? else I'll let you know bet- 
ter." 

Tom never disobeyed his father, for Mr. Tulliver was a pe- 
remptory man, and, as he said, would never let any body get 
hold of his whip-hand; but he went out rather sullenly, carry- 
ing his piece of plum-cake, and not intending to retrieve Mag- 
gie's punishment, which was no more than she deserved. Tom 
was only thirteen, and had no decided views in grammar and 
arithmetic, regarding them for the most part as open questions, 
but he was particularly clear and positive on one point, name- 
ly, that he would punish every body who deserved it ; why, he 
wouldn't have mmded being punished himself, if he deserved 
it ; but, then, he never did deserve it. 

It was Tom's step, then, that Maggie heard on the stairs 
when her need of love had triumphed over her pride, and she 
was going down with her swollen eyes and disheveled hair to 
beg tor pity. At least her father would stroke her head and 
say, " Never mind, my wench." It is a wonderftd subduer, 
this need of love — ^this hunger of the heart — as peremptory as 
that other hunger by which Nature forces us to submit to the 
yoke, and change the face of the world. 

But she knew Tom's step, and her heart \>^gaxi to "Hi^^'roy 
lently with the sadden ebock of hope. He onlty %too9i %^SBL ^ 



86 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

the top of the stairs and said, " Maggie, you're to come down.'* 
But she rushed to him and clung round his neck, sobbing, 
" Oh, Tom, please forgive me — ^I can't bear it — ^I will always 
be good — always remember things — do love me — ^please, dear 
Tom?" 

We learn to restrain ourselves as we get older. We keep 
apart when we have quarreled, express ourselves in well-bred 
pnrases, and in this way preserve a dignified alienation, show- 
ing much firmness on one side, and swallowing much grief on 
the other. We no longer approximate in our behavior to the 
mere impulsiveness of the lower animals, but conduct ourselves 
in every respect like members of a highly civilized society. 
Maggie and Tom were still very much like young animals, and 
so she could rub her cheek against his, and kiss his ear in a 
random, sobbing way ; and there were tender fibres in the lad 
that had been used to answer to Maggie's fondUng, so that he 
behaved with a weakness quite inconsistent with his resolution 
to punish her as much as she deserved : he actually began to 
kiss her in return, and say, 

" Don't cry, then, Magsie — ^here, eat a bit o' cake." 

Maggie's sobs began to subside, and she put out? her month 
for the cake and bit a piece ; and then Tom bit a piece, just 
for company ; and they ate together, and rubbed each other's 
cheeks, and brows, and noses together, while they ate, with a 
humiliating resemblance to two friendly ponies. 

"Come along, Magsie, and have tea,'' said Tom at Iswt, 
when there was no more cake except what was down stairs. 

So ended the sorrows of this day, and the next morning 
Maggie was trotting with her own fishing-rod in one hand and 
a handle of the basket in the other, stepping always, by a pe- 
culiar gift, in the muddiest places, and looking darkly radiant 
from under her beaver bonnet because Tom was good to her. 
She had told Tom, however, that she should like him to put 
the worms on the hook for her, although she accepted his word 
when he assured her that worms couldn't feel (it was Tom's 
private opinion that it didn't much matter if they did). He 
knew all about worms, and fish, and those things ; and what 
bh'ds were mischievous, and how padlocks opened, and which 
way the handles of the gates were to be lifted. Maggie thought 
this sort of knowledge was very wonderftQ — ^much more diffi- 
cult than remembering what was in the books ; and she was 
rather in awe of Tom's superiority, for he was the only person 
who called her knowledge " stuff," and did not feel surprised 
at her cleverness. Tom, indeed, was of opinion that Maggie 
was B BilHy little thing ; all girls were silly : they couldn't throw 
^ stone so as to hit any 3iing, couldn't do any thing with a 



THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 87 

pocket-knife, and were frightened at frogs. Still, he was very 
fond of his sister, and meant always to take care of her, make 
her his housekeeper, and punish her when she did wrong. 

They were on their way to the Round Pool — ^that wonder- 
ful pool, which the floods had made a long while ago. No one 
knew how deep it was ; and it was mysterious, too, that it 
should be almost a perfect round, framed in with willows and 
tall reeds, so that the water was only to be seen when you got 
close to the brink. The sight of the old favorite spot always 
heightened Tola's good-humor, and he spoke to Maggie in the 
most amiable whispers, as he opened the precious basket and 
prepared their tackle. He threw her line for her, and put the 
rod into her hand. Maggie thought it probable that the small y 
fish would come to her hook, and the large ones to Tom's. 
But she had forgotfen all about the fish, and was looking 
dreamily at the glassy water, when Tom said, in a loud whis- 

Eer, " Look ! look, Maggie !" and came running to prevent her 
•om snatching her line away. • ^ 

Maggie was frightened lest she had been doing something 
wrong, as usual, but presently Tom drew out her line and 
brought a large tench boimcing on the grass. 

Tom was excited. 

" Oh Magsie ! you little duck ! Empty the basket." 

Maggie was not conscious of unusual merit, but it was 
enough that Tom called her Magsie, and was pleased with her. 
There was nothing to mar her delight in the whispers and the 
dreamy silences, when she listened to the light dipping sounds 
of the rising fish, and the gentle rustling, as if the willows, and 
the reeds, and the water had their happy whisperings also. 
Maggie thought it would make a very nice heaven to sit by . 
the pool in that way, and never be scolded. She never knew 
she had a bite till Tom told her, but she liked fishing very 
much. . -—N 

It was one of their happy mornings. They trotted along J 
and sat down together, with no thought that life would ever ^ 
change much for them : they would only get bigger and not / 
go to school, and it would always be like the holidays ; they 
would always live together and be fond of each other. And >;^ 
the mill with its booming — ^the great chestnut-tree under which 
they played at houses — ^ftieir own little river, the Ripple, where 
the banks seemed like home, and Tom was always seeing the 
water-rats, while Maggie gathered the purple plumy tops of 
the reeds, which she forgot and dropped afterward — above all, 
the great Floss, along which they wandered with a sense of 
travel, to see the rushing spring-tide, the awful Eiagte,e.OTCifcxx:^ 
like BhungrymoDster, or to see the Great Ae!l[v^)^<^\caA ctciq^ 



38 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

wailed and groaned like a man — ^these things would always be 
just the same to them. Tom thought people were at a disad- 
vantage who lived on any other- spot of the globe ; and Mag- 
gie, when she read about Christiana passing " the river over 
which there is no bridge," always saw the Sloss between the 
green pastures by the Great Ash. 

Life did change for Tom and Maggie ; and yet they were 
not wrong in believing that the thoughts and loves of these 
) first years would always make part of their lives. We could 
never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood 
/ ^ in it — if it were not the earth where the same flowers come 
v_ up again every spring that we used to gather with our tiny 
fingers as we sat lisping to ourselves on the grass — ^the same 
hips and haws on the autumn hedgerows — ^the same redbreasts 
that we used to call " God's birds," because they did no harm 
to the precious crops. What novelty is worth that sweet mo- 
notony where every thing is known, and loved because it is 
known ? 

The wood I walk in on this mild May day, with the young 
yellow-brown foliage of the oaks between me and the blue sky, 
the white star-flowers, and the blue-eyed speedwell, and the 
ground^vy at my feet — what grove of tropic palms, what 
strange ferns or splendid brbad-petaled blossoms, could ever 
thrill such deep and delicate fibres within me as this home- 
scene ? These familiar flowers, these well-remembered bird- 
notes, this sky with its fitful brightness, these furrowed and 
grassy fields, each with a sort of personafity given to it by the 
capricious hedgerows — such things as these are the mother 
tongue of our imagination, the language that is laden with all 
the subtle inextricable associations the fleeting hours of our 
childhood left behind them. Our delight in the sunshine on 
the deep-bladed grass to-day might be no more than the faint 
perception of wearied souls, if it were not for the sunshine 
and the grass in the far-off years, which Still live in us, and 
transform our perception into love. 



CHAPTER VI. 

THE AUNTS AND ITNCLES ARE COMING. 

It was Easter week, and Mrs. Tulliver's cheese-cakes were 
more exquisitely light than usual : " a puff o' wind 'ud make 
'em blow like feathers," Kezia the housemaid said, feeling 
proud to live under a mistress who could make such pastry; 
so that no season or circumstances could have been more pro- 



THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 39 

pitious for a family party, even if it had not been advisable to 
consult sister Glegg and sister Pullet about Tom's going to 
school. 

" I'd as lief not invite sister Deane this time," said Mrs.Tul- 
liver, " for she's as jealous and having as can be, and 's allays 
trying to make the worst o' my poor children to their aunts 
and uncles." 

" Yes, yes," said Mr. Tulliver, " ask her to come. I never 
hardly get a bit o' talk with Deane now ; we haven't had him 
this six months. What's it matter what she says — ^my chil- 
dren need be beholding to nobody." 

" That's what you allays say, Mr. Tulliver ; but I'm sure 
there's nobody o' your side, neither aunt nor uncle, to leave 
'em so much as a five-pound note for a leggicy. And there's 
sister Glegg, and sister Pullet too, saving money unknown — 
for they put by all their own interest, and butter-money too ; 
their husbands buy 'em every thing." Mrs. Tulliver was a 
mild woman, but even a sheep will face about a little when 
she has lambs. 

« Tchuh !" said Mr. Tulliver. « It takes x big loaf when 
there's many to breakfast. What signifies yo«r sisters' bits o* 
money when they've got half a dozen nevvies and nieces to di- 
vide it among ? And your sister Deane won't get 'em to leave 
all to one, I reckon, and make the country cry shame on 'em 
when they are dead ?" 

*'I don't know what she won't get 'em to do," said Mrs. 
Tulliver, " for my children are so awk'ard wi' their aunts and 
uncles. Maggie's ten times naughtier when they come than 
she is other days, and Tom doesn't like 'em, bless him — though 
it's more nat'ral in a boy than a gell. And there's Lucy Deane 's 
such a good child — ^you^may set her on a stool, and there she'll 
sit for an hour together, and never offer to get off. I can't 
help loving the ch^d as if she was my own ; and Pm sure she's 
more like my child than sister Deane's, for she'd allays a very 
poor color for one of our family, sister Deane had." 

" Well, well, if you're fond of the child, ask her father and 
mother to bring her with 'em. And won't you ask their aunt 
and uncle Moss too— and some o' their children ?" 

" Oh dear, Mr. Tulliver, why, there'd be eight people besides 
the children, and I must put two more leaves i^ the table, be- 
sides reaching down more o' the dinner-service ; and you know 
as well as I do as my sisters and your sisters don't suit well 
together." 

"Well, well, do as you like, Bessy," said Mr. Tulliver, taking 
up his hat and walking out to the mill. Few wives were more 
rabmiiBsiYe than Mrs. Tulliver on all points unconnected with 



40 THE HILL ON THE FLOSS. 

her family relations ; but she had been a Miss Dodson, and the 
Dodsons were a very respectable family indeed — as much look- 
ed up to as any in their own parish, or the next to it. The 
Miss Dodsons had always been thought to hold up their heads 
very high, and no one was surprised the two eldest had mar- 
ried so well — ^not at an early age, for that was not the practice 
of the Dodson family. There were particular ways of doing 
every thing in that family — ^particular ways of bleaching the 
linen, of making the cowslip wine, curing the hams, and keep- 
ing the bottled gooseberries, so that no daughter of that house 
could be indifferent to the privilege of having been bom a 
Dodson, rather than a Gibson or a "Watson. Funerals were 
always conducted with peculiar propriety in the Dodson fam- 
ily : the hat-bands were never of a blue shade, the gloves never 
split at the thumb, every body was a mourner who ought to 
be, and there were always scarfs for the bearers. When one 
of the family was in trouble or sickness, all the rest went to 
visit the unfortunate member, usually at the same time, and 
did not shrink ftjgKn uttering the most disagreeable truths that 
correct family fteling dictated : if the illness or trouble was 
the sufferer's oVp fault, it was not in the practice of the Dod- 
son family to shrink from saying so. In short, there was in 
this family a peculiar tradition as to what was the right thing 
in household management and social demeanor, and the only 
bitter circumstance attending this superiority was a painful 
inability to approve the condiments or the conduct of families 
tmgoverned by the Dodson tradition. A female Dodson, when 
in " strange houses," always ate dry bread with her tea, and 
declined any sort of preserves, having no confidence in the butr 
ter, and thinking that the preserves had probably begun to 
ferment from want of due sugar and boihng. There were some 
Dodsons less like the family than others — ^that was admitted ; 
but in so far as they were " kin," they were^ of necessity, bet- 
ter than those who were " no kin." And it is remarkable that 
while no individual Dodson was satisfied with any other indi- 
vidual Dodson, each was satisfied not only with him or her 
self, but with the Dodsons collectively. The feeblest member 
of a family — ^the one who has the least character — ^is often the 
merest epitome of the family habits and traditions ; and Mrs. 
Tulliver was a thorough Dodson, though a mild one, as small- 
beer, so long as it is any thing, is only describable as very weak 
ale ; and though she had groaned a httle in her youth under 
the yoke of her elder sisters, and still shed occasional tears at 
their sisterly reproaches, it was not in Mrs. Tulliver to be an 
jDnovator on the family ideas. She was thankful to have been 
a JDodsoD, and to have one child ^1:10 tooV 2&&x Vy^x o^^m fam« 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 41 

ily, at least in his features and complexion, in liking salt and 
in eating beans, which a Tulliver never did. 

Jn other respects the true Dodson was partly latent in Tom, 
and he was as far from appreciating his " kin" on the mother's 
side as Maggie herself; generally absconding for the day with 
a large supply of the most portable food when he received 
timely warning that his aiints and uncles were coming — a moral 
symptom from which his aunt Glegg deduced the gloomiest 
views of his future. It was rather hard on Maggie that Tom 
always absconded without letting her into the secret, but the 
weaker sex are acknowledged to be serious impedimenta in 
cases of flight. 

On Wednesday, the day before the aunts and uncles were 
coming, there were such various and suggestive scents, as of 
plum-cakes in the oven and jellies in the hot state, mingled 
with the aroma of gravy, that it was impossible to feel alto- 
gether gloomy : there was hope in the air. Tom and Maggie 
made several inroads into the kitchen, and, like other maraud- 
ers, were induced to keep aloof for a time only by being al- 
lowed to carry away a sufficient load of booty. 

"Tom," said Maggie, as they sat on the boughs of the elder- 
tree, eating their jam puffs, "shall you run away to-mor- 
row ?" 

" No," said Tom, slowly, when he had finished his puff, and 
was eying the third, which was to be divided between them, 
" no, I sha'n't." 

*' Why, Tom ? Because Lucy's coming ?" 

" No," said Tom, opening his pocket-knife and holding it 
over the pujQ^ with his head on one side in a dubitative man- 
ner. (It was a difficult problem to divide that very irregular 
polygon into two equal parts.) " What do I care about Lucy ? 
ohe's only a girl ; she can't play at bandy." 

" Is it the tipsy-cake, then ?" said Maggie, exerting her hy- 
pothetic powers, while she leaned forward toward Tom with 
her eyes fixed on the hovering knife. 

" !N o, you silly ; that'll be good the day after. It's the 
padden. I know what the pudden's to be — apricot roll-up — 
Oh, my buttons !" 

With this interjection the knife descended on the puff and 
it was in two, but the result was not satisfactory to Tom, for 
he still eyed the halves doubtfully. At last he said, 

" Shut your eyes, Maggie." 

" What for ?" 

" You never mind what for — shut 'em when I tell you '' 

Maggie obeyed. 

^Isow, which 'Uyou have, Maggie, right hand ot \e$V,Y 



i"*^ 



42 THB MILL ON THB FLOSS. 

" I'll have that with the jam run out," said Maggie, keeping 
her eyes shut to please Tom. 

" Why, you don't like that, you silly. You may have it if 
it comes to you fair, but I sha'n't give it to you without. 
Right or left — you choose now. Ha-a-a !" said Tom, in a tone 
of exasperation, as Maggie peeped. "You keep your eyes 
shut now, else you sha'n't have any." 

Maggie's power of sacrifice did not extend so far ; indeed, I 
fear she cared less that Tom should enjoy the utmost possible 
amount of puff, than that he should be pleased with her for 
giving him the best bit. So she shut her eyes quite close till 
Tom told her to " say which," and then she said, " Left hand." 

" You've got it," said Tom, in rather a bitter tone. 

" What ! the bit with the jam run out ?" 

" No ; here, take it," said Tom, firmly, handing decidedly 
the best piece to Maggie. 

" Oh, please, Tom, have it ; I don't mind — ^I like the others 
please take this." 

" No, I sha'n't," said Tom, almost crossly, beginning on his 
own inferior piece. 

Maggie, thinking it was iio use to contend further, began 
too, and ate up her half puff with considerable relish as well 
as rapidity. But Tom had finished first, and had to look on 
while Maggie ate her last morsel or two, feeling in himself a 
capacity for more. Maggie didn't know Tom was looking at 
her : she was seesawing on the elder bough, lost to almost 
every thing but a vague sense of jam and idleness. 

" Oh, you greedy thing !" said Tom, when she had swallow- 
ed the last morsel. He was conscious of having acted very 
fairly, and thought she ought to have considered this, and 
made up to him for it. He would have refused a bit of hers 
beforehand, but one is naturally at a different point of view 
before and after one's own share of puff is swallowed. 

Maggie turned quite pale. " Oh, Tom, why didn't you ask 
me ?" 

" I wasn't going to ask you for a bit, you greedy. You 
might have thought of it without, when you knew I gave you 
the best bit." 

" But I wanted you to have it — ^you know I did," said Mag- 
gie, in an injured tone. 

"Yes, but I wasn't going to do what wasn't fair, like 

Spouncer. He always takes the best bit, if you don't punch 

him for it ; and if you choose the best with your eyes shut, he 

changes his hands. But if I go halves, I'll go 'em fair — only 

I wouldn't be a greedy." 

Wj'tb thia cnttmg innuendo, Tom jum^eSi Ao^'^m from his 



? 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 43 

bough, and threw a stone with a " hoigh !" as a friendly at- 
tention to Yap, who had also been looking on while the eata- 
bles vanished with an agitation of his ears and feelings which 
could hardly have been without bitterness. Yet the excellent 
dog accepted Tom's attention with as much alacrity as if he 
had been treated quite generously. 

But Maggie, gifted with that superior power of misery 
which distinguishes the human being, and places him at a 
proud distance from the most melancholy chimpanzee, sat still ) 

on her bough, and gave herself up to the keen sense of unmer- C 
ited reproach. She would have given the world not to have 
eaten 2JI her puff^ and to have saved some of it for Tom. Not 
but that the puff was very nice, for Maggie's palate was not at 
all obtuse, but she would have gone without it many times 
over sooner than Tom should call her greedy and be cross 
with her. And he had said he wouldn't have it — and she ate 
it without thinking — how could she help it ? The tears flow- 
ed so plentifully that Maggie saw nothing around her for the 
next ten minutes ; but by that time resenfhient began to give 
way to the desire of reconciliation, and she jumped from her 
bough to look for Tom. He was no longer in the paddock 
behind the rick-yard — where was he likely to be gone, and 
Yap with him? Maggie ran to the high bank against the 

freat holly-tree, where she could see far away toward the 
loss. There was Tom ; but her heart sank again as she saw 
how far off he was on his way to the great river, and that he 
had another companion besides Yap— naughty Bob Jakin, 
whose official, if not natural function, of frightening the birds 
was just now at a standstill. Maggie felt sure that Bob was 
wicked, without very distinctly knowing why, unless it was 
because Bob's mother was a dreadfully large, fat woman, who 
Kved at a queer house down the river ; and once, when Mag- 
gie and Tom had wandered thither, there rushed out a brin- 
dled dog that wouldn't stop barking ; and when Bob's mother 
rushed out after it, and screamed above the barking to tell 
them not to be frightened, Maggie thought she was scolding 
them fiercely, and her heart beat with terror. Maggie thought 
it very likely that the round house had snakes on the floor and 
bats in the bedroom ; for she had seen Bob take off his cap to 
show Tom a little snake that was inside it, and another time 
he had a handful of young bats : altogether he was an irregu- 
lar character, perhaps even slightly diabolical, judging from 
his intimacy with snakes and bats ; and to crown all, when 
T<Mn had Bob for a companion, he didn't mind abowt, Ma.^^^^ 
and would never let her go with him. 
It must be owned that Tom was fond of BoV^ com^^ssj 



^ 



44 THE MILL OK THE FLOSS. 

How could he be otherwise ? Bob knew, directly he saw a 
bird's eggy whether it was a swallow's, or a tomtit's, or a yel- 
lowhammer's ; he found out all the wasps' nests, and could set 
all sorts of traps ; he could climb the trees like a squirrel, and 
had quite a magical power of detecting hedgehogs and stoats ; 
and he had courage to do things that were rather naughty, 
such as making gaps in the hedgerows, throwing stones after 
the sheep, and killing a cat that was wandering incognito. 
Such qualities in an inferior, who could always be treated with 
authority in spite of his superior knowingness, had necessarily 
a fatal fascination for Tom ; and every hohday-time Maggie 
was sure to have days of grief because he had gone off with 
Bob. 

"Well, there was no hope for it ; he was gone now, and Mag- 
gie could think of no comfort but to sit down by the holly, or 
wander by the hedgerow, and fancy it was all different, re- 
fashioning her little world into just what she should like it 



to be. 



Maggie's was a troublous life, and this was the form in which 
she took her opium. 

Meanwhile Tom, forgetting aU about Maggie and the sting 
of reproach which he had left in her heart, was hurrying along 
with Bob, whom he had met accidentally, to the scene of a 
great rat-catching in a neighboring barn. Bob knew all about 
this particular affair, and spoke of the sport with an enthu- 
siasm which no one who is not either divested of all manly 
feeling, or pitiably ignorant of rat-catching, can fail to imagine. 
For a person suspected of preternatural wickedness. Bob was 
really not so very villainous-looking; there was even some- 
thing agreeable in his snub-nosed face, with its close-curled 
border of red hair. But then his trowsers were always rolled 
up at the knee, for the convenience of wading on the slightest 
notice ; and his virtue, supposing it to exist, was undeniably 
" virtue in rags," which, on the authority even of bilious phi- 
losophers, who think all well-dressed merit overpaid, is notori- 
ously likely to remain unrecognized (perhaps because it is seen 
so seldom). 

" I know the chap as owns the ferrets," said Bob, in a hoarse 
treble voice, as he shuffled along, keeping his blue eyes fixed 
on the river, like an amphibious animal who foresaw occasion 
for darting in. " He lives up the Kennel Yard at Sut Ogg's — 
he does. He's the biggest rot-catcher any where — ^he is. Td 
sooner be a rot-catcher nor any thing — ^I would. The moles 
is nothing to the rots. But Lors ! you mun ha' ferrets. Dogs 
IS no good. Why, there's that dog, now!" Bob continued, 
pointiDg with an air of disgust to^ai^'Y«^^^''\i^^ tlo ts^q^tq 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 45 

good wi* a rot nor notbin'. I see it myself— I did — ^at the rot- 
catchin' i' your feyther's bam." 

Yap, feeling the withering influence of this scorn, tucked his 
tiul in and shrank close to Tom's leg, who felt a little hurt for 
him, but had not the superhuman courage to seem behindhand 
with Bob in contempt lor a dog who made so poor a figure. 

" No, no," he said, " Yap's no good at sport. I'll have reg- 
ular good dogs for rats and every thing when I've done school." 

*' Hev ferrets, Measter Tom," said Bob, eagerly — " them 
white ferrets wi' pink eyes ; Lors, you might catch your own 
rots, an* you might put a rot in a cage wi' a ferret, an' see 'em 
fight — -you might. That's what I'd do, I know, an' it 'ud be 
better fun a'most nor seein' two chaps fight — ^if it wasn't them 
chaps as sell cakes an' oranges at the Fair, as the things flew 
out o' their baskets, an' some o' the cakes was smashed .... 
But they tasted just as good," added Bob, by way of note or 
addendum, after a moment's pause. 

" But, I say. Bob," said Tom, in a tone of deliberation, " fer- 
rets are nasty biting things : they'll bite a fellow without be- 
ing set on." 

" Lors ! why that's the beauty on 'em. If a chap lays hold 
o* your ferret, he won't be long before he hollows out a good 
un — he won't." 

At this moment a striking incident made the boys pause 
suddenly in their walk. It was the plunging of some small 
body in the water from among the neighboring bulrushes — ^if 
it was not a water-rat, Bob intimated that he was ready to 
undergo the most unpleasant consequences. 

" Hoigh ! Yap — ^hoigh I there he is," said Tom, clapping his 
hands, as the little black snout made its arrowy course to the 
opposite bank. • " Seize him, lad, seize him !" 

Yap agitated his ears and wrinkled his brows, but declined 
to plunge, trying whether barking would not answer the pur- 
pose just as well. 

*' Ugh ! you coward !" said Tom, and kicked him over, feel- 
ine humiliated as a sportsman to possess so poor-spirited an 
aimnal. Bob abstained from remark and passed on, choosing, 
however, to walk in the shallow edge of the overflowing river 
by way of change. 

"He's none so full now, the Floss isn't," said Bob, as he 
kicked the water up before him, with an agreeable sense of 
being insolent to it. " Why, last 'ear, the meadows was all 
one sheet o' water, they was." 

** Ay, but," said Tom, whose mind was prone to see an op- 
position between statements that were really quite ^uc^iotdkajoX^ 
"but ther^ was a big £ood once, when the B.o\md. YocA. "^^%s^ 



46 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

made. I know there was, 'cause father says so. And the 
sheep and cows were all drowned, and the boats went all over 
the fields ever such a way." 

"Z don't care about a flood comm'," said Bob; "I don't 
mind the water no more nor the land. Fd swim — ^Z would." 

" Ah ! but if you got nothing to eat for ever so long ?" ssdd 
Tom, his imagination becoming quite active under the stimu- 
lus of that dread. ^' When I'm a man, I shall make a boat 
with a wooden house on the top of it, like Noah's ark, and keep 
plenty to eat in it — rabbits and things — all ready. And then 
if the flood came, you know. Bob, I shouldn't mind .... And 
I'd take you in, if I saw you swinuning," he added, in the tone 
of a benevolent patron. 

" I aren't frighted," said Bob, to whom hunger did not ap- 
pear so appalling. ^' But I'd get in an' knock the rabbits on 
th' head when you wanted to eat 'em." 

"Ah! and I should have halfpence, and we'd play at heads 
and tails," said Tom, not contemplating the possibility that 
this recreation might have fewer charms for his mature age! 
" I'd divide fair to begin with, and then we'd see who'd win." 

" I'n got a halfpenny o' my own," said Bob, proudly, com- 
ing out of the water and tossing his halfpenny in the air. 
" Yeads or taHs ?" 

" Tails," said Tom, instantly fired with the design to win. 

" It's yeads," said Bob, hastily snatching up the hal^enny 
as it fell. 

" It wasn't," said Tom, loudly and peremptorily. " Tou 
give me the halfpenny ; I've won it fair." 

" I sha'n't," said Bob, holding it tight in his pocket. 

" Then I'll make you — see if I don't," said Tom. 

" You can't make me do nothing, you can't," said Bob. 

" Yes, I can." 

" No, you can't." 

" I'm master." 

" I don't care for you." 

"But I'll make you care, you cheat," said Tom, collaring 
Bob and shaking him. 

" You get out wi' you," said Bob, giving Tom a kick. 

Tom's blood was thoroughly up : he went at Bob with a 
lunge and threw him down, but Bob seized hold and kept it 
like a cat, and pulled Tom down after him. They struggled 
fiercely on the ground for a moment or two, till Tom, pinning 
Bob down by the shoulders, thought he had the mastery. 

" Ymi say vou'll give me the halfpenny now," he said, with 
dMcultyj while he exerted himself to keep the command of 
Bob^B arms. 



THB MILL ON THS FLOSS. 47 

Bnt at this moment, Yap, who had been running on before, 
returned barking to the scene of action, and saw a favorable 
opportunity for biting Bob's bare leg not only with impunity, 
but with honor. . The pain from Yap's teeth, instead of sur- 
prising Bob into a relaxation of his hold, gave it a fiercer te- 
nacity, and, with a new exertion of his force, he pushed Tom 
backward and got uppermost. But now Yap, who could get 
no sufficient purchase before, set his teeth in a new place, so 
that Bob, harassed in this way, let go his hold of Tom, and, al- 
most throttling Yap, flung him into the river. By this time 
Tom was up again, and before Bob had quite recovered his 
balance after the act of swinging Yap, Tom fell upon him, 
threw him down, and got his knees finnly on Bob's chest. 

" You give me the halfpenny now," said Tom. 

" Take it," said Bob, sulkily. 

" No, I sha'n't take it ; you give it me." 

Bob took the halfpenny out of his pocket, and threw it away 
from him on the ground. 

Tom loosed his hold, and left Bob to rise. 

"There the halfpenny Hes," he said. "I don't want your 
halfpenny ; I wouldn't have kept it. But you wanted to cheat : 
I hate a cheat. I sha'n't go along with you any more," he 
added, turning round homeward, not without casting a regret 
toward the rat-catohing and other pleasures which he must re- 
linquish along with Bob's society. 

" You may let it alone, then," Bob called out after him. " I 
shall cheat if I like ; there's no fun i' playing else ; and I know 
where there's a goldfinch's nest, but I'll take care you don't 
An' you're a nasty fightin' turkey-cock, you are . . . ." 

Tom walked on without looking round, and Yap followed 
his example, the cold bath having moderated his passions. 

" Go along wi' you, then, wi' your drownded dog; I wouldn't 
own such a dog — I wouldn't," said Bob, getting louder, in a 
last effort to sustain his defiance. But "S^m was not to be 
provoked into turning round, and Bob's voice began to falter 
a little as he ssdd, 

" An' Fn gi'en you every thing, an' showed you every thing, 
an' niver wanted nothin' from you An' there's your horn- 
handled knife, then, as you ^'en me — ^" Here Bob flung the 
knife as far as he could after Tom's retreating footsteps. But 
it produced no effetpt, except the sense in Bob's mind that there 
was a terrible void in his lot now that knife was gone. 

He stood still till Tom had passed through the gate and dis- 
appeared behind the hedge. The knife would do no good on. 
the ground there; it wooJdn't vex Tom, and pride ox Te^e\i\r 
ment was a feeble passion in Bob's mind compacedi m\\i \iE^ 



48 THE MnX ON THE FLOSS. 

love of a pocket-knife. His very fingers sent entreating thrills 
that he would go and clutch that familiar rough buck's-hom 
handle, which they had so often grasped for mere affection as 
it lay idle in his pocket. And there were two blades, and they 
had just been sharpened ! What is life without a pocket-knire 
to him who has once tasted a higher existence ? No ; to throw 
the handle after the hatchet is a comprehensible act of despe- 
ration, but to throw one's pocket-knife after an implacable 
friend is clearly in every sense a hyperbole, or throwing be- 
yond the mark. So Bob shuffled back to the spot where the 
beloved knife lay in the dirt, and felt quite a new pleasure in 
clutching it again after the temporary separation, in opening 
one blade after the other, and feeling their edge with his weU- 
hardened thumb. Poor Bob! he was not sensitive on the 
point of honor — ^not a chivalrous character. That fine moral 
aroma would not have been thought much of by the public 
opinion of Kennel Yard, which was the very focus or heart of 
Bob's world, even if it could have made itself perceptible 
there ; yet, for all that, he was not utterly a sneak and a thief, 
as our friend Tom had hastily decided. 

But Tom, you perceive, was rather a Rhadamanthine per- 
sonage, having more than the usual share of boy's justice in 
him — ^the justice that desires to hurt culprits as much as they 
deserve to be hurt, and is troubled with no doubts concerning 
the exact amount of their deserts. Maggie saw a cloud on his 
brow when he came home, which checked her joy at his com- 
ing 80 much sooner than she had expected, and she dared hard- 
ly speak to him as he stood silently throwing the small gravel- 
stones into the mill-dam. It is not pleasant to give up a rat- 
catching when you have set your mind on it. But if Tom had 
told his strongest feeling at that moment, he would have said, 
"I'd do just the same again." That was his usual mode of 
viewing his past actions, whereas Maggie was always wishing 
she had done something different. 



CHAPTER Vn. 

ENTEB THE AUNTS AND ITNCLES. 



The Dodsons were certainly a handsome family, and Mrs. 

Glegg was not the least handsome of the sisters. As she aat 

in Mrs. Tulliver's arm-chair, no impartial observer could have 

denied that for a woman of fifty she had a very comely face and 

Sgure, though Tom and Maggie considered their aunt Glegg 

S£( the type of ugliness. It is true, die 4ft«;yv^^dlVi<^ ddvanta^ 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 49 

of oostmnis ; for though, as she often observed, no woman had 
better clothes, it was not her way to wear her new things out 
before her old ones. Other women, if they liked, might have 
their best thread lace in every wash, but when Mrs. Glegg died 
it would be found that she had better lace laid by in the right- 
hand drawer of her wardrobe, in the Spotted Chamber, than 
ever fi&s. "Wooll of StI Ogg's had bought in her life, although 
Mrs. Wooll wore her lace before it was paid for. So of her 
curled fronts : Mrs. Glegg had doubtless the glossiest and crisp- 
est brown curls in h er d rawers, as well as curls in various de- 
grees of fuzzylaxness ; but to look out on the week-day world 
from under a crisp and glossy front would be to introduce a 
most dreamL-hke and unpleasant confusion between the sacred 
and the: secular. Occasionally, indeed, Mrs. Glegg wore one 
of her third^'Eest fronts on a week-day visit, but not at a sister's 
house ; especially not at Mrs. TuUiver's, who, since her mar- 
riage, had hurt her sisters' feelings greatly by wearing her own 
hair, though, as Mrs. Glegg observed to Mrs. Deane, a mother 
of a family, like Bessy, with a husband alw^s going to law, 
might have been expected to know better. ^Kut Bessy was al- 
w^s weak ! 

So, if Mrs. Glegg's front to-day was more iuzzy and lax than 
usual, she had a design under it : she intended the most pointed 
and cutting allusion to Mrs. TuUiver's bunches of blonde curls, 
separated from each other by a due wave of smoothness on 
each side of the parting. Mrs. TulJiver had shed tears several 
times at sister Griegg's unkindness on the subject of these un- 
matronly curls, but the <5on8oiousness of looking the handsomer 
for them naturally administered support. Mrs. Glegg chose to 
wear her bonnet in the house to-day — ^untied and tilted slight- 
ly, of course — a frequent practice of hers when she was on a 
visit, and happened to be in a severe humor : she didn't know 
what draughts there might be in strange houses. For the 
same reason she wore a small sable tippet, which reached just 
to her shoulders, and was very far from meeting across her well- 
formed chest, while her long neck was protected by a chevavx 
defrise of miscellaneous frilling. One would need to be learn- 
ed in the fashions of those times to know how far in the rear 
of them Mrs. Glegg's slate-colored silk gown must have been; 
but, from certain constellations of small yellow spots upon it, 
and a mouldy odor about it suggestive of a damp clothes-chest, 
it was probable that it belonged to a stratum of garments just 
old enough to have come recently into wear. 

Mrs. Glegg held her large gold watch in her hand, witli t\i^ 
many-doubled chain round her fingers, and ob^rvedi \>o ^%&£^« 
TaBxrer, who had just returned from a visit, to X\iQ"^i53!tf3ftfia^ 

C 



50 THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

that whatever it might be by other people's clocks and wa,tches, 
it was gone half past twelve by hers. 

" I don't know what ails sister Pullet," she continued. '* It 
used to be the way in our family for one to be as early as an- 
other — ^I'm sure it was so in my poor father's time — and not 
for one sister to sit half an hour before the others came. But 
if the ways o' the family are altered, it sha'n't be my fault; I'^U 
never be the one to come into a house when all the rest are 
going away. I wonder at sister Deane — she used to be more 
like me. feut if you'll take my advice, Bessy, you'll put the 
dinner forrard a bit, sooner than put it back, because folks are 
late as ought to ha' known better." 

" Oh dear, there's no fear but what they'll be all here in time, 
sister," said Mrs. TuDiver, in her mild-peevish tone. " The din- 
ner won't be ready till half past one. But if it's long for you 
to wait, let me fetch you a cneese-cake and a glass o' wine." 

" Well, Bessy !" said Mrs. Glegg, with a bitter smile, and a 
scarcely perceptible toss of her head, " I should ha' thought 
you'd know your own sister better. I never did eat between 
meals, and I'm not going to begin. Not but what I hate that 
nonsense of having your dinner at half past one, when you 
might have it at one. You was never brought up in that way, 
Bessy." 

" Why, Jane, what can I do ? Mr. Tulliver doesn't like his 
dinner before two o'clock, but I put it half an hour earlier be- 
cause o' you." 

"Yes, yes, I know how it ia wi' husbands — ^they're for put- 
ting every thing off— they'll put the dinner off till after tea, if 
they've got wives as are weak enough to give in to such work ; 
but it's a pity for you, Bessy, as you haven't got more strength 
o' mind. It'll be well if your chUdren don't suffer for it. And 
I hope you've not gone and got a great dinner for us — going 
to expense for your sisters as 'ud sooner eat a crust o' dry 
bread nor help to ruin you with extravagance. I wonder you 
don't take pattern by your sister Deane — she's far more sensi- 
ble. And here you've got two children to provide fOr, and 
your husband's spent your fortin i' going to law, and's like to 
spend his own too. A boiled joint, as you could make broth 
of for the kitchen," Mrs. Glegg added, in a tone of emphatic 
protest, " and a plain pudding, with a spoonful o' sugar and no 
spice, 'ud be far more becoming." 

With sister Glegg in this humor, there was a cheerful pros- 
pect for the day. Mrs. Tulliver never went the length of quar- 
reTiDg with her, any more than a water-fowl that puts out its 
leg in a deprecating manner can be said to quarrel with a boy 
wlio throws atones. But this point ot \ii^ dxsoict >N«i ^\/Rai^^ 



THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 51 

one, and not at all new, so that Mrs. Talliver could make the 
same answer she had often made before. 

" Mr. Tulliver says he always will have a good dinner for his 
friends while he can pay for it," she said, " and he's a right to 
do as he likes in his own house, sister." 

" Well, Bessy, Zcan't leave your children enough out o' my 
savings to keep 'em from ruin. And you mustn't look to hav- 
ing any o' Mr. Glegg's money, for it's well if I don't go first — 
he comes of a long-lived family ; and if he was to die and leave 
me weU for my life, he'd tie sil the money up to go back to his 
own kin." 

The sound of wheels while Mrs. Glegg was speaking was an 
interruption highly welcome to Mrs. Tulliver, who hastened out 
to receive sister Pullet — ^it must be sister Pullet, because the 
sound was that of a four-wheel. 

Mrs. Glegg tossed her head and looked rather sour about the 
mouth at the thought of the " four-wheel." She had a strong 
opinion on that subject. 

Sister Pullet was in tears when the one-horse chaise stopped 
before Mrs. Tulliver's door, and it was apparently requisite that 
she should shed a few more before getting out ; for, though 
her husband and Mrs. Tulliver stood ready to support her, she 
sat still and shook her head sadly as she looked through her 
tears at the vague distance. 

"Why, whativer is the matter, sister?" said Mrs. Tulliver. 
She was not an imaginative woman, but it occurred to her that 
the large toilet-glass in sister Pullet's best bedroom was pos- 
sibly broken for the second time. 

There was no reply but a further shake of the head as Mrs. 
Pullet slowly rose and got down from the chaise, not without 
casting a glance at Mr. Pullet to see that he was guarding her 
handsome silk dress from injury. Mr. Pullet was a small man 
with a high nose, small twinkling eyes, and thin lips, in a fresh- 
looking suit of black, and a white cravat, that seemed to have 
been tied very tight on some higher principle than that of mere 
personal ease. He bore about the same relation to his tall, 
good-looking wife, with her balloon sleeves, abundant mantle, 
and large be-feathered and be-ribboned bonnet, as a smaU fish- 
ing-smack bears to a brig with all its sails spread. 

It is a pathetic sight and a striking example of the complexity 
introduced into the emotions by a high state of civilization — 
the sight of a fashionably dressed female in grief. From the 
sorrow of a Hottentot to that of a woman in large buckram 
sleeves, with several bracelets on each arm, an axdiiXi^eXiXxt^ 
bonnet, and delicate ribbon-striDgs — what a long %et\e% oi ^Wr 
dstiona! Jh the enlightened child of civilization \Jafe ^^sv^ssiie. 



52 THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 

ment characteristic of grief is checked and varied in the sub- 
tlest manner, so as to present an interesting problem to the 
analytic mind. If, with a crushed heart and eyes half-blinded 
by the mist of tears, she were to walk with a too devious step 
through a door-place, she might crush her buckram sleeves too, 
and the deep consciousness of this possibility produces a com- 
position offerees by which she takes a line that just clears the 
door-post. Perceiving that the tears are hurrying fast, she un- 
pins her strings and throws them languidly backward — a touch- 
mg gesture, indicative, even in the deepest gloom, of the hope 
in future dry moments when cap-strings will once more have a 
charm. As the tears subside a little, and with her head lean- 
ing backward at the angle that wiU not injure her bonnet, she 
endures that terrible moment when grief, which has made all 
things else a weariness, has itself become weary ; she looks 
down pensively at her bracelets, and adjusts their clasps with 
that pretty studied fortuity which would be gratifying to her 
mind if it were once more in a calm and healthy state. 

Mrs. Pullet brushed each door-post with great nicety about 
the latitude of her shoulders (at that period a woman was truly 
ridiculous to an instructed eye if she did not measure a yard 
and a half across the shoulders), and having done that, sent the 
muscles of her face in quest of fresh tears as she advanced into 
the parlor where Mrs. Glegg was seated. 

" Well, sister, you're late ; what's the matter ?" said Mrs. 
Glegg, rather sharply, as they shook hands. 

Mrs. Pullet sat down, lifting up her mantle carefully behind 
before she answered, 

" She's gone," unconsciously using an impressive figure of 
rhetoric. 

" It isn't the glass this time, then," thought Mrs. Tulliver. 

" Died the day before yesterday," continued Mrs. Pullet ; 
" an' her legs was as thick as my body," she added, with deep 
sadness, after a pause. " They'd tapped her no end o' times, 
and the water — ^they say you might ha' swum in it, if you'd 
liked." 

" Well, Sophy, it's a mercy she's gone, then, whoiver she 
may be," said Mrs. Glegg, with the promptitude and emphasis 
of a mind naturally clear and decided; 'tbut I can't think who 
you're talking of, for my part." 

" But I know,"^ said Mrs. Pullet, sighing and shaking her 
head ; " and there isn't another such a droJ)sy in the parish. I 
know as it's old Mrs. Sutton o' the Twentylands." 

" Well, she's no kin o' yours, nor much acquaintance, as Pve 
ever beared of," said Mrs. Glegg, who always cried just as 
much as was proper when any thing happened to her own 
^^kin/' but not on other occasions. 



THB MTTiL ON THE ^OSS. 53 

"She's SO much acquaintance as I've seen her legs when 
they was like bladders. . . . And an old lady as had 
doubled her money over and over again, and kept it all in her 
own management to the last, and had her pocket with her keys 
m under her pillow constant. There isn't many old/?arish'ners 
like her, I doubt." 

" And they s^ she'd took as much physic as 'ud fill a wag- 
on," observed Mr. Pullet. / 

"Ah!" sighed Mrs. Pullet, "she'd another complaint .ever 
so many years before she had the dropsy, and the doctors 
couldn't make out what it was. And she sai^ to me, when I 
went to see her last Christmas, she said, ' Mrs. Pullet, if iver 
you have the dropsy, you'll think o' me.' She did say so," 
added Mrs. Pullet, beginning to cry bitterly again ; " those 
were her very words. And she's to be buried o' Saturday, 
and Pullet's bid to the funeral." 

** Sophy," said Mrs. Glegg, unable any longer to contaia her 
spirit of rational remonstrance, " Sophy, I wonder at you, fret- 
tmg and injuring your health about people as don't belong to 
you. Your poor father never did so, nor your aunt Frances 
neither, nor any o' the family, as I ever beared of. You 
couldn't fret no more than this if we'd beared as our cousin 
Abbott had died sudden without making his will." 

. Mrs. Pullet was silent, having to finish her crying, and rather 
flattered than indignant at being upbraided for crying too 
much. It was not every body who could afford to cry so 
much about their neighbors who had left them nothing ; but 
Mrs. Pullet had married a gentleman farmer, and had leisure 
and money to carry her crying and evei^^ thing else to the 
highest pitch of respectability. 

" Mrs. Sutton diii't die without making her will, though," 
said Mr. Pullet, with a confused sense that he was saying some- 
thing to sanction his wife's tears ; " ours is a rich parish, but 
they say there's nobody else to leave as many thousands be- 
hind 'em as Mrs. Sutton. And she's left no leggicies, to speak 
on — ^left it aU in a lump to her husband's nevvy." 

" There wasn't much good i' being so rich, then," said Mrs. 
Glegg, "if she'd got none but husband's Ion to leave it to. 
It's poor work when that's all you've got to pinch yourself for 
— not as I'm one o' those as 'ud like to die without leaving 
more money out at interest than other folks had reckoned. 
But it's a poor tale when it must go out o' your own family ."^ 

" I'm sure, sister," said Mrs. Pullet, who had recovered suf- 
ficiently to take off her veil and fold it carefully, " it's a nice 
sort o' man as Mrs. Sutton has left her money to, for he's 
troubled with the asthmy, and goes to bed every night at eight 



54 THE IflLL ON THB FLOSS. 

o'clock. He told me about it himself — as free as coiQd be — 
one Sunday when he came to our church. He wears a bare- 
skin on his chest, and has a trembling in his talk — quite a gen- 
tleman sort o' man. I told him there wasn't many months in 
the year as I wasn't under the doctor's hands. And he said, 
' Mrs. Pullet, I can feel for you.' That was what he said — ^the 
very words. Ah !" sighed Mrs. Pullet, shaking her head at the 
idea that there were but few who could enter fully into her 
experiences in pink mixture and white mixture, strong stuff in 
small bottles, and weak stuff in large bottles, damp boluses at 
a shilling, and draughts at eighteen pence. " Sister, I may as 
well go and take my bonnet off now. Did you see as the cap- 
box was put out ?" she added, turning to her husband. 

Mr. Pullet, by an unaccountable lapse of memory, had for- 
gotten it, and hastened out, with a stricken conscience, to 
remedy the omission. 

" They'll bring it up stairs, sister," said Mrs. Tulliver, wish- 
ing to go at once, lest^Mrs. Glegg should begin to explain her 
feelings about Sophy's being the first Dodson who ever ruined 
her constitution with doctor's stuff. 

Mrs. Tulliver was fond of going up stairs with her sister ' 
Pullet, and looking thoroughly at her cap before she put it on 
her head, and discussing millinery in general. This was part 
of Bessy's weakness that stirred Mrs. Glegg's sisterly com- 
passion: Bessy went far too well dressed, considering; and 
she was too proud to dress her child in the good clothing her 
sister Glegg gave her from the primeval strata of her ward- 
robe ; it was a sin and a shame to buy any thing to dress that 
child, if it wasn't a pair of shoes. In this particular, however, • 
Mrs. Glegg did her sister Bessy some injustice, for Mrs. Tulli- 
ver had really made great efforts to induce Maggie to wear a 
Leghorn bonnet and a dyed silk frock made out of her auilt 
Glegg's, but the results had been such that Mrs. Tulliver "was 
obliged to bury them in her maternal bosom ; for Maggie, de- 
claring that the frock smelt of nasty dye, had taken an oppor- 
tunity of basting it together with the roast beef the first Sun- 
day she wore it, and, finding this scheme answer, she had sub- 
sequently pumped on the bonnet with its green ribbons, so as 
to give it a general resemblance to a sage cheese garnished 
with withered lettuces. I must urge in excuse for Maggie 
that Tom laughed at her in the bonnet, and said she looked 
like an old Judy. Aunt Pullet, too, made presents of clothes, 
but these were always pretty enough to please Maggie as well 
as her mother. Of all her sisters, Mrs. Tulliver certainly pre- 
ferred her sister Pullet, not without a return of preference ; 
but Mrs. Pullet was sorry Bessy had those naughty awkward 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 55 

children ; she would do the best she conld by them, but it was 
a pity they weren't as good and as pretty as sister Deane's 
child. Maggie and Tom, on their part, bought their aimt 
Pullet tolerable, chiefly because she was not their aunt Glegg. 
Tom always declined to go more than once, during his hoB- 
days, to see either of them : both his uncles tipped him that 
once, of course ; but at his aunt Pullet's diere were a great 
many toads to pelt in the cellar area, so that he preferred the 
Visit to her. Maggie shuddered at the toads, and dreamed 
of them horribly, but she liked her imcle Pullet's musical snuff- 
box. Still, it was agreed by the sisters, in Mrs. Tulliver's ab- 
sence, that the Tulliver blood did not mix well with the Dod- 
Bon blood ; that, in fact, poor Bessy's children were TuUivers, 
and that Tom, notwithstanding he had the Dodson complexion, 
was likely to be as " contrairy" as his father. As for Maggie, 
she was the picture of her aunt Moss, Mr. Tulliver's sister — a 
large-boned woman, who had married as poorly as could be-$ 
had no china, and had a husband who had much ado to pay 
his rent. But when Mrs. Pullet was alone with Mrs. TuUiver 
up stairs, the remarks were naturally to the disadvantage of 
Mrs. Glegg, and they agreed, in confidence, that there was no 
knowing what sort of fright sister Jane would come out next. 
But their tete-^tHe was curtailed by the appearance of Mrs. 
Deane with little Lucy, and Mrs. Tulliver had to look on with 
a silent pang while Lucy's blonde curls were adjusted. It was 
quite unaccountable that Mrs. Deane, the thinnest and saUow- 
est of all the Miss Dodsons, should have had this child, who 
might have been taken for Mrs. Tulliver's any day. And Mag- 
gie alwayd looked twice as dark as usual when sne was by the 
side of Lucy. 

She did to-day, when she and Tom came in from the garden 
with their falser and then* uncle Glegg. Maggie had thrown 
her bonnet off very carelessly, and, coming in with her hair 
rough as well as out of curl, rushed at once to Lucy, who was 
standing by her mother's knee. Certainly the contrast be- 
tween the cousins was conspicuous, and, to superficial eyes, 
was very much to the disadvantage of Maggie, though a con- 
noisseur might have seen " points" in her which had a higher 
Eromise for maturity than Lucy's natty completeness. It was 
ke the contrast between a rough, dark, overgrown puppy 
and a white kitten. Lucy put up the neatest little rose-bud 
mouth to be kissed : every thing about her was neat — ^her lit- 
tle round neck, with the row of coral beads ; her little straight 
nose, not at all snubby ; her little clear eyebrows, rather dark- 
er than her curls, to match her hazel eyes, which looked up 
with shy pleasure at Maggie, taller by the head, though scarce- 



V. 



56 THB MILL OK THE FL06S. 

I7 a year older. Maggie always looked at Lucy with delight. 
She was fond of fancying a world where the people never got 
any larger than chil^en of their own age, and she made the 
qneen of it just like Lucy, with a little crown on her head and 
a little sceptre in her hand .... only the queen was Maggie 
herself in Lucy's form. 
2 " Oh Lucy," she burst out, after kissing her, ** you'll stay 
with Tom and me, won't you? Oh kiss her, Tom." 

Tom, too, had come up to Lucy, but he was not going to 
kiss her — ^no ; he came up to her with Maggie because it seem- 
ed easier, on the whole, than saying " How do you do ?" to 
all those aunts and uncles : he stood looking at nothing in par- 
ticular, with the blushing, awkward air and semi-smile wmch 
are common to shy boys when in company — ^very much as if 
they had come into the world by mistake, and found it in a de- 
gree of undress that was quite embarrassing. 

" Heyday !" said aunt Glegg, with loud emphasis. ** Do lit- 
tle boys and gells come into a room without taking notice o' 
their uncles and aunts? That wasn't the way when JTwas a 
Httle gell." 

" Go and speak to your aunts and uncles, my dears," said 
Mrs. Tulliver, looking anxious and melancholy. She wanted 
to whisper to Maggie a conunand to go and have her hair 
brushed. 

" Well, and how do you do ? And I hope you're good chil- 
dren, are you ?" said aunt Glegg, in the .same loud emphatic 
way, as she took their hands, hurting them with her large 
rings, and kissing their cheeks much against their desire. 
*'Look up, Tom, look up. Boys as go to boarding-schools 
should hold their heads up. Look at me now." Tom de- 
clined that pleasure apparently, for he tried to draw his hand 
away. " Put your hair behind your ears, Maggie, and keep 
your frock on your shoulder." 

Aunt Glegg always spoke to them in this loud emphatic 
way, as if she considered them deaf, or perhaps rather idiotic: 
it was a means, she thought, of making them feel that they 
were accountable creatures, and might be a salutary check on 
naughty tendencies. Bessie's children were so spoiled — ^they'd 
need have somebody to make them feel their duty. 

" Well, my dears," said aunt Pullet, in a compassionate voice, 
"you grow wonderful fast. I doubt they'll outgrow their 
strength," she added, looking over their heads, with a melan- 
choly expression, at their mother. " I think the gell has totJ^ 
much hair. Pd have it thinned and cut shorter, sister, if 
was you : it isn't good for her health. It's that as makes he 
skin so brown, I Wouldn't wonder. Don't you think so, siste 
Deane ?" 



T 

\ 



THB HILL ON THE FLOSS. 57 

"I can't say, Fm sure, sister," said Mrs. Deane, shutting her 
lips close again, and looking at Maggie with a critical eye. 

" No, no," said Mr. Tulliver, " the child's healthy enough ; 
there's nothing ails her. There's red wheat as well as wMte, 
for that matter, and some like the dark grain best. But it 'ud 
be as well if Bessy 'ud have the child's hair cut, so as it 'ud lie 
smooth." 

A dreadful resolve was gathering in Maggie's breast, but it 
was arrested by the desire to know from her aunt Deane 
whether she would leave Lucy behind: aunt Deane would 
hardly ever let Lucy come to see them. After various reasons 
for refusal, Mrs. Deane appealed to Lucy herself. 

*' You wouldn't like to stay behind without mother, should 
you, Lucy ?" 

*'Yes, please, mother," said Lucy, timidly, blushing very 
pink all over her little neck. 

" Well done, Lucy ! Let her stay, Mrs. Deane, let her stay," 
said Mr. Deane, a large but alert-looking man, with a type of 
physique to be seen in all ranks of English society — ^bald crown, 
red whiskers, full forehead, and general solidity without heav- 
iness. You may see noblemen like Mr. Deane, and you may 
see grocers or oay-laborers like him ; but the keenness of his 
brown eyes was less common than his contour. He held a sil- 
ver snuff-box very tightly in his hand, and now and then ex- 
changed a pinch with Mr. Tulliver, whose box was only silver- 
mounted, so that it was naturally a Joke between them that 
Mr. Tulliver wanted to exchange snuffboxes also. Mr. Deane's 
box had been given him by the superior partners in the firm to 
which he belonged, at the same time that they gave him a 
share in the business, in acknowledgment of his valuable serv- 
ices as manager. No man was thought more highly of in St. 
egg's than Mr. Deane, and some persons were even of opinion 
that Miss Susan Dodson, who was held to have made the worst 
match of all the Dodson sisters, might one day ride in a better 
carriage, and live in a better house even than her sister Pullet. 
There was no knowing where a man would stop who had got 
his foot into a great mill-owning, ship-owning business like that 
of Guest & Co., with a banking concern attached. And Mrs. 
Deane, as her intimate female friends observed, was proud and 
" having" enough : 8?ie wouldn't let her husband stand still in 
the world for want of spurring. 

"Maggie," said Mrs. Tulliver, beckoning Maggie to her, and 
whispering in her ear, as soon as this point of Lucy's staying 
was settled, " go and get your hair brushed— do, for shame. I 
told you not to come in without going to Martha first ; you 
know I did." 

C2 



58 THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 

" Tom, come out with me," whispered Maggie, pulling his 
sleeve as she passed him ; and Tom followed willingly enough. 

" Come up stairs with me, Tom," she whispered when they 
were outside the door. " There's something I want to do be- 
fore dinner." 

" There's no time to play at any thing before dinner," said 
Tom, whose imagination was impatient of any intermediate 
prospect. 

" Oh yes, there is time for this — do come, Tom." 

Tom followed Maggie up stairs into her mother's room, and 
saw her go at oncd to a drawer, from which she took out a 
large pair of scissors. 

" What are they for, Maggie ?" said Tom, feeling his curios- 
ity awakened. 

Maggie answered by seizing her front locks and cutting them 
straight across the middle of her forehead. 

" Oh my buttons, Maggie, you'll catch it I" exdauned Tom ; 
" you'd better not cut any more off." 

Snip ! went the great scissors again while Tom was speak- 
ing; and he couldn't help feeling it was rather good ftm: 
Maggie would look so queer. 

" Here, Tom, cut it behind for me," said Maggie, excited by 
her own daring, and anxious to finish the deed. 

" You'll catch it, you know," said Tom, nodding his head in 
an admonitory manner, and hesitating a Httle as he took the 
scissors. 

"Never mind — ^make haste!" said Maggie, giving a little 
stamp with her foot. Her cheeks were quite flushed. 

The black locks were so thick — ^nothing could be more 
tempting to a lad who had already tasted the forbidden pleas- 
ure of cutting the pony's mane. I speak to those who know 
the satisfaction of making a pair of shears meet through a duly 
resisting mass of hair. One delicious grinding snip, and then 
another and another, and the hinder locks fell heavily on the 
floor, and Maggie stood cropped in a jagged uneven manner, 
but with a sense of clearness and freedom, as if she had 
emerged from a wood into the open plain. 

" Oh, Maggie," said Tom, jumping round her, and slapping 
his knees as he laughed, " Oh my buttons, what a queer thing 
you look 1 Look at yourself iu the glass : you look like the 
idiot we throw our nutshells to at school." 

Maggie felt an unexpected pang. She had thought before- 
hand chiefly of her own deliverance from her teasing hair and 
teasing remarks about it, and something also of the triumph 
she should have over her mother and her aunts by this very 
decided course of action : she didn't want her hair to look 



TEDS MILL ON THB FLOSS. 50 

pretty — ^that was out of the ijuestion — she only wanted people 
to think her a deyer little girl, and not to find fanlt wiUi her. 
Bat now, when Tom b^an to laugh at her, and say she was 
like the idiot, the afiair had quite a new aspect. She looked 
in the glass, and still Tom laughed and clapped his hands, and 
Maggie's flushed cheeks began to pale, and her lips to tremble 
a little. 

" Oh, Maggie, youTl have to go down to dinner directly," 
said Tom. « Oh my !" 

^^ Don't laugh at me, Tom," said Maggie, in a passionate 
tone, with an outburst of angry tears, stamping, and giving 
him a push. 

" Now, then, spitfire !" said Tom. " What did you cut it 
off for, then? I shall go down; I can smeU the dinner going 
in." 

He hurried down stairs and left poor Maggie to that bitter 
sense of the irrevocable which was almost an every-day expe- 
rience of her small soul. She could see clearly enough, now 
the thing was done, that it was very foolish, and uiat she 
should have to hear and think more about her hair than ever ; 
for Maggie rushed to her deeds with passionate impulse, and 
then saw not only their consequences, but what would have 
happened if they had not been done, with all the detaQ and 
exaggerated circumstance of an active imagination. Tom 
never did the same sort of foolish things as Maggie, having a 
wonderful distinctive discernment of what would turn to his 
advantage or disadvantage ; and so it happened, that though 
he was much more willful and inflexible than Maggie, his 
mother hardly ever called him naughty. But if Tom did make 
a mistake of that sort, he espoused it, and stood by it : he 
" didn't mind." If he broke the lash of his father's ffig-whip 
by lashing the gate, he couldn't help it — ^the whip shouldn't 
have got caught in the hinge. If Tom Tulliver whipped a 
gate, he was convmced, not that the whipping of gates by all 
boys was a justifiable act, but that he, Tom Tulliver, was justi- 
fiable in whipping that particular gate, and he wasn't going to 
be sorry. But Maggie, as she stood crymg before the glass, 
felt it impossible that she should go down to dinner and en- 
dure the severe eyes and severe words of her aunts, while Tom, 
and Lucy, and Martha, who waited at table, and perhaps her 
father and her uncles, would laugh at her ; for if Tom had 
laughed at her, of course every one else would ; and if she had 
only let her hair alone, she could have sat with Tom and Lucy, 
and had the apricot pudding and the custard 1 What could 
she do but sob ? She sat as helpless and despairing among 
her black locks as Ajax among the slaughtered sheep. Very 



60 TEDS MILL ON THB FL06S. 

trivial, perhaps, this aDgoish seems to weather-worn mortals 
who have to think of Christmas bills, dead loves, and broken 
friendships ; but it was not less bitter to Maggie — ^perhaps it 
was even more bitter — ^than what we are fond of codling anti- 
\ thetically the real troubles of mature life. " Ah ! my child, 
^ you will have real troubles tofret about by-and-by," is the con- 
solation we have almost all of us had administered to ns in our 
childhood, and have repeated to other children since we have 
been grown up. We have all of us sobbed so piteously, stand- 
ing with tiny bare legs above our little socks, when we lost 
sight of our mother or nurse in some strange place ; but we 
can no longer recall the poignancy of that moment and weep 
over it, as we do over the remembered suffering of five or ten 
years ago. Every one of those keen moments has left its 
race, and lives in us still, but such traces have blent them- 
elves irrevocably with the firmer texture of our youth and 
anhood, and so it comes that we can look on at the troubles 
Tof our children with a smiling disbelief in the reality of their 
pain. Is there any one who can recover the experience of his 
childhood, not merely with a memory of what he did and what 
hapjpened to him, of what he liked and disliked when he w'as 
in frock and trowsers, but with an intimate; penetration, a re- 
vived consciousness of what he felt then, when it was so long 
from one Midsummer to another? what he felt when his 
schoolfellows shut him out of their game because he would 

Sitch the ball wrong out of mere wmfulness ; or on a rainy 
ay in the holidays, when he didn't know how to amuse him- 
self, and fell from idleness into mischief, from mischief into de- 
fiance, and from defiance into sulkiness ; or when his mother 
absolutely refused to let him have a tailed coat that "half," al- 
though every other boy of his age had gone into tails already? 
Surely if wo could recall that early bitterness, and the dim 
guesses, the strangely perspectiveless conception of life that 
gave the bitterness its mtensity, we should not pooh-pooh the 
griefs of our children. 

"Miss Maggie, you're to come down this minute," said 
Kczia, entering the room hurriedly. "Lawks! what have 
you been a doing? I niver see such a fright." 

" Don't, Kezia," said Maggie, angrily. " Go away I" 

" But I tell you you're to come down, miss, this minute ; 
your mother says so," said Kezia, going up to Maggie and tak- 
mg her by the hand to raise her from the floor. 

'' Get away, Kezia ; I dont want any dinner," said Maggie, 
resisting Kezia's arm. " I sha'n't come." 

" Oh, well, I can't stay. I've got to wait at dinner," said 
Kezio, going out again. 



THE MILL OK THB FLOSS. 61 

"Maggie, you little silly," said Tom, peeping into the room 
ten minutes after, " why don't you come and have your din- 
ner ? There's lots o' goodies, and mother says you're to come. 
What are you crying for, you little spooney?" 

Oh, it was dreadful ! Tom was so hard and unconcerned : 
if hs had been crying on the floor, Maggie would have cried 
too. And there was the dinner, so nice ; and she was so hun- 
gry. It was very bitter. 

But Tom was not altogether hard. He was not inclined to 
cry, and did not feel that Maggie's grief spoiled his prospects 
of the sweets ; but he went and put his head near her, and 
said, in a lower, comforting tone, 

" Won't you come, then, Maggie ? Shall I bring you a bit 
o' pudding when I've had mine? . . . and a custard and 
thin^ ?" 

"Ye-e-es," said Magsie, beginning to feel life a little more 
tolerable. 

" Very well," said Tom, going away. But he turned again 
at the door and said, " But you'd better come, you know. 
There's the dessert — ^nuts, you know — and cowslip wine." 

Maggie's tears had ceased, and she looked reflective as Tom 
left her. His good-nature had taken ofl* the keenest edge of 
her suffering, and nuts with cowslip wine began to assert their 
legitimate influence. 

Slowly she rose from among her scattered locks, and slowly 
she made her way down stairs. Then she stood leaning with 
one shoulder against the frame of the dining-parlor door, peep- 
ing in when it was ajar. She saw Tom and Lucy with an 
empty chair between them, and there were the custards on a 
side-table — ^it was too much. She slipped in and went toward 
the empty chair. But she had no sooner sat down than she 
repented, and wished herself back again. 

Mrs. Tulliver gave a little scream as she saw her, and felt 
such a " turn" that she dropped the large gravy-spoon into the 
dish with the most serious results to the table-cloth ; for Kezia 
had not betrayed the reason of Maggie's refusal to come down, 
not liking to give her mistress a shock in the moment of carv- 
ing, and Mrs. Tulliver thought there was nothing worse in 
question than a fit of perverseness, which was inflicting its own 
punishment by depriving Maggie of half her dinner. 

Mrs. Tulliver's scream made all eyes turn toward the same 
point as her own, and Maggie's cheeks and ears began to bum, 
while uncle Glegg, a kind-looking, white-haired old gentleman, 
said, 

"Heyday! what little gell's this — why, I don't know her. 
Is it some Uttle gell you've picked up in the road, Kezia ?" 



62 THE MILL ON THS FLOSS. 

" Why, she's gone and cut her hair herself," said Mr. Tul- 
liver in an under-tone to Mr. Deane, laughing with much en- 
joyment. "Did you ever know such a little hussy as it is?" 

" Why, little miss, you've made yourself look very funny," 
said uncle Pullet, and perhaps he never in his life made an oh- 
servation which was felt to be so lacerating. 

" Fie, for shame !" said aunt Glegg, in her loudest, severest 
tone of reproof. "Little gells as cut their own hair should be 
whipped and fed on bread and water, not come and sit down 
with their aunts and uncles." 

" Ay, ay," said uncle Glegg, meaning to give a playful turn 
to this denunciation, " she must be sent to jail, I think, and 
they'll cut the rest of her hair off there, and make it all even." 

" She's more like a gipsy nor ever," said aunt Pullet, in a 
pitying tone ; " it's very bad luck, sister, as the gell should be 
so brown — ^the boy's fair enough. I doubt it '11 stand in her 
way i' life to be so brown." 

" She's a naughty child, as '11 break her mother's heart," 
said Mrs. Tulliver, with the tears in her eyes. 

Maggie seemed to be listening to a chorus of reproach and 
derision. Her first flush came from, anger, which gave her a 
transient power of defiance, and Tom thought she was braving 
it out, supported by the recent appearance of the pudding and 
custard. Under this impression, he whispered, "Oh my! 
Maggie, I told you you'd catch it." He meant to be friendly, 
but Maggie felt convinced that Tom was rejoicing in her ig- 
nominy. Her feeble power of defiance left her in an instant, 
her heart swelled, and, getting up from her chair, she ran to 
her father, hid her face on his shoulder, and burst out mto loud 
sobbing. 

" Come, come, my wench," said her father, soothingly, put- 
ting his arm round her, "never mind; you was i' the right to 
cut it off if it plagued you; give over crying; father '11 take 
your part." 

Delicious words of tenderness ! Maggie never forgot any 

of these moments when her father " took her part ;" she kept 

them in her heart, and thought of them long years after, when 

every one else said that her father had done very ill by his 

' children. 

" How your husband does spoil that child, Bessie !" said Mrs. 
Glegg, in a loud " aside" to Mrs. Tulliver. " It '11 be the ruin 
of her if you don't take care. My father niver brought his 
children up so, else we should ha' been a different sort o' fem- 
ily to what we are." 

Mrs. Tulliver'^a domestic sorrows seemed at this moment to 
Iiave reached the point at which maeiifeTibVlit.^ beg^ins. She took 



THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 63 

no notice of her sister's remark, but threw back her cap-strings 
and dispensed the pudding in mute resignation. 

With the dessert there came entire deliverance for Maggie, 
for the children were told they might have their nuts and wine 
in the summer-house, since the day was so mild, and they 
scampered out among the budding bushes of the garden with 
the alacrity of small animals getting from under a burning- 
glass. 

Mrs.Tulliver had her special reason for this permission : now 
the dinner was dispatched, and every one's mind disengaged, 
it was the right moment to communicate Mr. Tulliver's inten- 
tion concerning Tom, and it would be as well for Tom himself 
to be absent. The children were used to hear themselves talk- 
ed of as freely as if they were birds, and could understand 
nothing, however they might stretch their necks and listen ; 
but on this occasion Mrs. Tulliver manifested an unusual dis- 
cretion, because she had recently had evidence that the going 
to school to a clergyman was a sore point with Tom, who look- 
ed at it as ve^ much on a par with going to school to a con- 
stable. Mrs. Tulliver had a sighing sense that her husband 
would do as he liked, whatever sister Glegg said, or sister 
Pullet dther, but at least they would not be able to say, if the 
thing turned out ill, that Bessy had fallen in with her hus- 
band's folly without letting her own friends know a word 
about itr 

" Mr. Tulliver," she said, interrupting her husband in his talk 
with Mr. Deane, " it's time now to tell the children's aunts and 
uncles what you're thinking of doing with Tom, isn't it ?" 

"Very well," said Mr. Tulliver, rather sharply, " I've no ob- 
jections to tell any body what I mean to do with him. I've 
settled," he added, " looking toward Mr. Glegg and Mr. Deane, 
"Fve settled to send him to a Mr. Stelling, a parson down at 
King's Lorton there — an imcommon clever fellow, I under- 
stand, as 'U put him up to most things." 

There was a rustling demonstration of surprise in the com- 
pany, such as you may have observed in a country congrega- 
tion when they hear an allusion to their week-day affairs from 
the pulpit. It was equally astonishing to the aunts and uncles 
to find a parson introduced into Mr. Tulliver's family arrange- 
ments. As for uncle Pullet, he could hardly have been more 
thoroughly obfuscated if Mr. Tulliver had said that he was go- 
ing to send Tom to the lord chancellor ; for uncle Pullet be- 
longed to that extinct class of British yeomen who, dressed in 
good broadcloth, paid high rates and taxes, went to church, 
and ate a particularlj good dinner on Sunday, w\\\iO\x\) diT^'dxsir 
ing €bat me Bntiab Constitution in Church and ^t^X.^ \i"aSL ^ 



64 THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

traceable ori^ any more than the solar system and the fixed 
stars. It is melancholy, but true, that Mr. JPullet had the most 
confused idea of a bishop as a sort of a baronet who might or 
might not be a clergyman, ^d as the rector of his own parish 
was a man of high family and fortune, the idea that a clergy- 
man could be a schoolmaster was too remote from Mr. Pullers 
experience to be readily conceivable. I know it is difficult for 
people in these instructed times to believe in uncle Pullet's ig- 
norance ; but let them reflect on the remarkable results of a 
great natural faculty under favoring circumstances. And un- 
cle Pullet had a great natural faculty for ignorance. He was 
the first to give utterance to his astonishment. 

" Why, what can you be going to send him to a parson for?" 
he said, with an amazed twinkling in his eyes, looking at Mr. 
Glegg and Mr.Deane, to see if they showed any signs of comr 
prehension. 

""Why, because the parsons are the best schoolmasters, by 
what I can make out," said poor TuUiver, who, in the maze of 
this puzzling world, laid hold of any clew with great readiness 
and tenacity. " Jacobs at th' academy's no parson, and he's 
done very bad by the boy ; and I made up my mind, if I sent 
him to school again, it should be to somebody different to Ja- 
cobs. And this Mr. Stelling, by what I can make out, is the 
sort o' man I want. And I mean my boy to go to him at Mid- 
summer," he concluded, in a tone of decision, tapping his snuff- 
box and taking a pinch. 

" Y6u'll have to pay a swinging half-yearly bill then, eh, Tul- 
liver ? The clergymen have highish notions in general," said 
Mr. Deane, taking snuff vigorously, as he always did when wish- 
ing to maintain a neutral position. 

" What ! do you think the parson '11 teach him to know a 
good sample o' wheat when he sees it, neighbor Tulliver ?" 
said Mr. Glegg, who was fond of his jest, and, having retired 
from business, felt that it was not only allowable, but becom- 
ing in him to take a playful view of things. 

" Why, you see, Pve got a plan i' my head about Tom," 
said Mr. Tulliver, pausing after that statement and liting up 
his glass. 

" Well, if I may be allowed to speak^ and it's seldom as I 
am," said Mrs. Glegg, with a tone of bitter meaning, " I should 
like to know what good is to come to the boy by bringin* him 
up above his fortin." 

" Why," said Mr. Tulliver, not looking at Mrs. Glegg, but 

at the male part of his audience, " you see, I've made up my 

mind not to bring Tom up to my own business. Fve had my 

thoughts about it all along, and I m^e \v^ tci^ ixdsidby what 



THB MILL ON THE FLOSI^ 65 

I saw with Gamett and his son. I mean to put him to some 
hnsiness as he can go into without capital, and I want to give 
him an eddication as he'll he even wi' the lawyers and folks, 
and put me up to a notion now an' then." 

Mrs. Glegg emitted a long sort of guttural sound with closed 
fips, that smiled in mingled pity and scorn. 

" It 'ud he a fine deal hetter for some people," she said, after 
that introductory note, " if they'd let the lawyers alone." 

*' Is he at the head of a grammar-school, then, this clergy- 
man, such as that at Market Bewley ?" said Mr. Deane. 

** No, nothing o' that," said Mr. Tulliver. " He won't take 
more than two or three pupils, and so he'll have the more 
time to attend to 'em, you know." 

^'Ah! and get his eddication done the sooner: they can't 
learn much at a time when there's so many of 'em," said uncle 
Pullet, feeling that he was getting quite an insight into this 
difficult matter. 

" But he'll want the more pay, I douht," said Mr. Glegg. 

** Ay, ay, a cool hundred a year — ^that's all," said Mr. Tulli- 
ver, with some pride at his own spirited course. " But then, 
you faaow, it's an investment ; Tom's eddication 'uU he so much 
capital to him." 

"Ay, there's something in that," said Mr. Glegg. "Well, 
well, neighbor Tulliver, you may be right, you may be right : 

** ' When land is gone and money's spent, 
Then learning is most excellent.* 

I remember seeing those two lines wrote on a window at Bux- 
ton. But us that have got no learning had better keep our 
money, eh, neighbor Pullet ?" Mr. Glegg rubbed his knees 
and looked very pleasant. 

" Mr. Glegg, I wonder at you," said his wife. " It's very 
unbecoming in a man o' your age and belongings." 

" What's unbecoming, Mrs. G. ?" said Mr. Glegg, winking 
pleasantly at the company. " My new blue coat as I've got 
on?" 

" I pity your weakness, Mr. Glegg. I say it's unbecoming 
to be making a joke when you see your own kin going head- 
longs to ruin." 

*' If you mean me by that," said Mr. Tulliver, considerably 
nettled, " you needn't trouble yourself to fret about me. I 
can manage my own affairs without troubling other folks." 

** Bless me," said Mr. Deane, judiciously introducing a new 
idea, " why, now I come to think of it, somebody said Wakem 
was goin^ to send his son — ^the deformed lad — ^to a cler^- 
man, didb^t thej, Snssn ?" (appealing to hia wiie."^ 

•* J ean give no account of it, I'm sure,'' Ba\9L "Mx^.T^ewi^^ 



66 JBB MILL OK THE FLOSS. 

closing her lips very tightly again. Mrs. Deane was not a 
woman to take part in a scene where missiles were flying. 

*' Well," said Mr. Tulliver, speaking all the more cheerftilly 
that Mrs. Glegg might see he didn't mind her, " if Wakem 
tliinks o' sending his son to a clergyman, depe nd on it I shall 
make no mistake i' sending Tom to one. Wakem's as big a 
scoundrel as Old Harry ever made, but he knows the length 
of every man's foot he's got to deal with. Ay, ay, tell me 
who's Wakem's butcher, and Til tell you where to get your 
meat." 

" But Lawyer Wakem's son's got a hump-back," said Mrs. 
Pullet, who felt as if the whole business had a funereal aspect; 
" it's more nat'ral to send him to a clerffyman." 

" Yes," said Mr. Glegg, interpreting Mrs. Pullet's observa- 
tion with erroneous plausibility, " you must consider that, 
neighbor Tulliver; Wakem's son isn't likely to follow any 
business. Wakem 'ull make a gentleman of him, poor fd[- 
low." 

" Mr. Glegg," said Mrs. G., in a tone which implied that her 
indignation would fizz and ooze a little, though she was de- 
termined to keep it corked up, " you'd far better hold your 
tongue. Mr. Tulliver doesn't want to know your opinion nor 
mine neither. There's folks in the world as Imow better than 
every body else." 

" Why, 1 should think that's you, if we're to trust your own 
tale," said Mr. Tulliver, beginning to boil up again. 

" Oh, I say nothing," said Mrs. Glegg, sarcastically. " My 
advice has never been asked, and I don't give it." 

" It '11 be the first time, then," said Mr. Tulliver. « It's the 
only thing you're over-ready at giving." 

" I've been over-ready at lending, then, if I haven't been 
over-ready at giving," said Mrs. Glegg. " There's folks I've 
lent money to, as perhaps I shall repent o' lending money to 
' kin." 

" Come, come, come," said Mr. Glegg, soothingly. But Mr. 
Tulliver was not to be hindered of his retort. 
^ " You've got a bond for it, I reckon," he ^aid ; "and you've 
. had your five per cent., kin or no kin." 

" Sister," said Mrs. Tulliver, pleadingly, " drink your wine, 
and let me give you some almonds and raisins." 

" Bessy, F m sorry for you," said Mrs. Glegg, very much with 
the feeling of a cur that seizes the opportunity of diverting his 
bark toward the man who carries no stick. "It's poor work| 
talking o' almonds and raisins." 

"Lors, sister Glegg, don't be so quarrelsome," said Mrg. 
Pullet, beginning to cry a little. " You may be struck with ft 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 67 

fit, getting so red in the face after dinner, and we are bnt jast 
out o' monmingy all of us — and all wi' gowns craped alike and 
just put by — it's very bad among sisters." 

"1 should think it is bad," said Mrs. Glegg. "Things are 
come to a fine pass when one sister invites the other to her 
itoose o' purpose to quarrel with her and abuse her." 

"Softly, softly, Jane — ^be reasonable — ^be reasonable," said 
Mr. Glegg. 

But, while he was speaking, Mr. TuUiver, who had by no 
means said enough to satisfy his anger, burst out again. 

" Who wants to quarrel with you ?" he said. " It's you as 
can't let people alone, but must be gnawing at 'em forever. 1 
should never want to quarrel with any woman if she kept her 
place." 

" My place, indeed !" said Mrs. Glegg, getting rather more 
shrilL " There's your betters, Mr. Tufiver, as are dead and in 
their grave, treated me with a different sort o' respect to what 
you ^o— though I've got a husband as '11 sit by me and see me 
abused by them as 'ud never ha' had the chance if there hadn't 
been them in our family as married worse than they might ha' 
done." 

" If you talk o' that," said Mr. Tulliver, " my family's as 
good as yours — and better, for it hasn't got a damned iU-tem- 
pered woman in it." 

" Well !" said Mrs. Glegg, rising fi*om her chair, " I don't 
know whether you think it's a fine thing to sit by and hear me 
swore at, Mr. Glegg, but I'm not going to stay a minute longer 
in this house. You can stay behind, and come home with the 
gig — and I'll WjEiIk home." 

" Dear heart ! dear heart !" said Mr. Glegg, in a melancholy 
tone, as he followed his wife out of the room. 

" Mr. Tulliver, how could you talk so ?" said Mrs. Tulliver, 
with the tears in her eyes. 

" Let her go," said Mr. Tulliver, too hot to be damped by 
any amount of tears. " Let her go, and the sooner the better : 
she won't be trying to domineer over me again in a hurry." 

" Sister Pullet," said Mrs. Tulliver, helplessly, " do you think 
it 'ud be any use for you to go after her and try to pacify 
her ?" 

" Better not, better not," said Mr. Deane. " You'll make it 
up another day." 

" Then, sisters, shall wo go and look at the children ?" said 
Mrs. Tulliver, drying her eyes. 

No proposition could have been more seasonable. Mr. Tul- 
liver felt very much as if the ah* had been cleared of obtrusive 
now the women were out of the room. There were few 



68 THB MILL ON THE 7L0S6. 

things he liked better than a chat with Mr. Deane, whose dose 
application to business allowed the pleasure very rarely. Mi. 
Deane, he considered, was the " knowingest" man of his ac- 
quaintance, and he had, besides, a ready causticity of tongue, 
that made an agreeable supplement to Mr. TuUiver's own tend- 
ency that way, which had remained -in rather an inarticulate 
condition. And, now the women were gone, they could carry 
on their serious talk without frivolous interr upti on. They coula 
exchange their views concerning the Duke of W ellington, whose 
conduct in the Catholic Question had thrown such an entirely 
new light on his character ; and speak slightingly of hia con- 
duct at the battle of Waterloo, which he would never have won 
if there hadn't been a great many Englishmen at his back, not 
to speak of Blucher and the Prussians, who, as Mr. TuUiver had 
heard from a person of particular knowledge in that matter, 
had come up in the very nick of time ; though here there was 
a slight dissidence, Mr. Deane remarlang that he was not dis- 
posed to give much credit to the Prussians — ^the build of their 
vessels, together with the unsatisfactory character of transac- 
tions in Dantzic beer, inclining him to form rather a low view 
of Prussian pluck generally. Rather beaten on this ground, 
Mr. Tulliver proceeded to express his fears that the country 
could never again be what it used to be ; but Mr. Deane, at- 
tached to a firm of which the^ returns were on the increase, 
naturally took a more lively view of the present, and had some 
details to give concerning the state of the imports, especially 
in hides and spelter, which soothed Mr. TuUiver's imagination 
by throwing into more distant perspective the period when the 
country would become utterly the prey of Papists and Radi- 
cals, and there would be no more chance for honest men. 

Uncle Pullet sat by and listened with twinkling eyes to these 
high matters. He didn't understand politics himself — ^thought 
they were a natural gift— but, by what he could make out, fids 
Duke of Wellington was no better than he should be. 



CHAPTER Vm. 

ME. TULLr^EB SHOWS HIS WEAKER SIDE. 

"Suppose sister Glegg should call her money in — ^it 'ud be 
very awkward for you to have to raise five hundred pounds 
now," said Mrs. Timiver to her husband that evening, as she 
took a plaintive review of the day. 

Mrs. Tulliver had lived thirteen years with her husband, yet 
she retted in all the freshness of her early married life a fih 



THE MUX ON THE FLOSS. 69 

oility of saying things which drove him in the opposite direc- 
tion to the one she desired. Some minds are wonderful for 
keeping their bloom in this way, as a patriarchal goldfish ap- 
parently retains to the last its youthful Hluslon that it can swim 
in a straight line beyond the encircling glass. Mrs. Tulliver 
was an amiable fish of this kind, and, after running her head 
against the same resisting medium for thirteen years, would go 
at it again to-day with undulled alacrity. 

This observation of hers tended directly to convince Mr. 
Tulliver that it would not be at all awkward for him to raise 
five hundred pounds; and when Mrs. Tulliver became rather 
pressing to know how he would raise it without mortgaging 
the mill and the house, which he had said he never would mort- 
gage, since nowadays people were none so ready to lend money 
without security, Mr. Tulhver, getting warm, declared that Mrs. 
Glegg might do as she liked about calling in her money — ^he 
should pay it in, whether or not. He was not going to be be- 
holding to his wife's sisters. When a man had married into a 
&mily where there was a whole litter of women, he might have 
plenty to put up with if he chose. But Mr. Tulliver did not 
choose. 

Mrs. Tulliver cried a little in a trickling quiet way as she 
put on her nightcap, but presently sank into a comfortable 
sleep, lulled by the thought that she would talk every thing 
over with her sister Pullet to-morrow, when she was to take 
the children to Garum Firs to tea. Not that she looked for- 
ward to any distinct issue from that talk ; but it seemed im- 
possible that past events should be so obstinate as to remain 
unmodified when they were complained against. 

Her husband lay awake rather longer, for he too was think- 
ing of a visit he would pay on the morrow, and his ideas on 
the subject were not of so vague and soothing a kind as those 
of his amiable partner. 

Mr. Tulliver, when under the influence of a strong feeUiig, 
had a promptitude in action that may seem iuconsistent with 
that painful sense of the complicated puzzling nature of human 
afiairs under which his more dispassionate deliberations were 
conducted ; but it is really not improbable that there was a di- 
rect relation between these apparently contradictory phenom- 
ena, since I have observed that for getting a strong impression 
that a skein is tangled, there is nothing Hke snatching hastily 
at a single thread. It was owing to this promptitude that Mr. 
Tulliver was on horseback soon after dinner the next day (he 
was not dyspeptic) on his way to Basset to see his sister Moss 
and her husband ; for, having made up his mind irrevocably 
that he would pay Mrs. Glegg her loan of five hundred pounds. 



70 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

it naturally occurred to him that he had a pronussory note for 
three hundred pounds lent to his brother-in-law Moss, and if 
said brother-in-law could manage to pay in the money within a 
given time, it would go far to lessen the fallacious air of incoor 
venience which Mr. Tulliver's spirited step might have worn 
in the eyes of weak people who require to know precisely Aow 
a thing is to be done before they are strongly confident that it 
will be easy. 

For Mr. Tulliver was in a position neither new nor striking, 
but, like other every-day things, sure to have a cumulative rf- 
fect that will be felt in the long run : he was held to be a much 
more substantial man than he really was. And as we are all 
apt to beheve what the world believes about us, it was his 
habit to think of failure and ruin with the same sort of remote 
pity with which a spare long-necked man hears that his pleth- 
oric short-necked neighbor is stricken with apoplexy. He 
had been always used to hear pleasant jokes about his advant- 
ages as a man who worked his own mill, and owned a pretty 
bit of land, and these jokes naturally kept up his sense that he 
was a man of considerable substance. They gave a pleasant 
flavor to his glass on a market-day ; and if it had not been for 
the riecurrence of half-yearly payments, Mr. Tulliver . would 
really have forgotten that there was a mortgage of two thou- 
sand pounds on his very desirable freehold. That was not al- 
together his own fault, since one of the thousand pounds was 
his sister's fortune, which he had had to pay on her marriage ; 
and a man who has neighbors that will go to law with him, is 
not likely to pay off his mortgages, especially if he enjoys the 
good opinion of acquaintances who want to borrow a nundred 
pounds on security too lofty to be represented by parchment. 
Our friend Mr. Tulliver had a good-natured fibre in him, and 
did not like to give harsh refusals even to a sister, who^ had 
not only come into the world in that superfluous way charac- 
teristic of sisters, creating a necessity for mortgages, but had 
quite thrown herself away in marriage, and had crowned her 
mistakes by having an eighth baby. On this point Mr. Tulli- 
ver was conscious of being a Httle weak ; but he apologized to 
himself by saying that poor Gritty had been a good-looking 
wench before she married Moss — ^he would sometimes say this 
even with a slight tremulousness in his voice. But this morn- 
ing he was in a mood more becoming a man of business, and 
in the course of his ride along the Basset lanes, with their deep 
ruts — ^lying so far away from a market-town that the labor of 
drawing produce and manure was enough to take away the 
best part of the profits on such poor land as that parish was 
made of— he got up a due amount of irritation against Moss 



THS: HILL ON THE FLOSS. 71 

as a man withont capital, who, if murrain and blight were 
abroad) was sure to have his share of them, and who, the more 
you tried to help him out of the mud, would sink the further 
in. It would do him good rather than harm, now, if he were 
obliged to raise this three hundred pounds : it would make 
him look about him better, and not act so foolishly about his 
wool this year as he did the last ; in £act, Mr. TuUiver had been 
too easy with his brother-in-law, and because he had let the in- 
'■ terest run on for two years. Moss was likely enough to think 
that he should never be troubled about the principal. But Mr. 
Tulliver was determined not to encourage such shuffling peo- 
ple any longer; and a ride along the Basset lanes was not 
likely to enervate a man's resolution by softening his temper. 
The defep-trodden hoof-marks, made in the muddiest days of 
winter, gave him a shake now and then which suggested a 
rash but stimulating snarl at the father of lawyers, -i^ho, wheth- 
er by means of his hoof or otherwise, had doubtless something 
to do with this state of the roads ; and the abundance of foul 
land and neglected fences that met his eye, though they made 
no part of 1^ brother Moss's farm, strongly contributed to his 
dissatisfaction with that unlucky agriculturist. K this wasn't 
Moss's fallow, it might have been : Basset was all alike ; it was 
a beggarly parish in Mr. TuUiver's opinion, and his opinion 
was certamly not groxmdless. Basset had a poor soil, poor 
roads, a poor non-resident landlord, a poor non-resident vicar, 
and rather less than half a curate, also poor. If any one strong- 
ly impressed with the power of the human mind to triumph 
over circumstances will contend that the parishioners of Bas- 
set might nevertheless have been a very superior class of peo- 
?le, I have nothing to urge against that abstract proposition ; 
only know that, in point of fact, the Basset mind was in strict 
keepmg with its circumstances. The muddy lanes, green or 
clayey, that seemed to the unaccustomed eye to lead nowhere 
but into each other, did really lead, with patience, to a distant 
high-road ; but there were many feet in Basset which they led 
more frequently to a centre of dissipation, spoken of formally 
as the "Markis o' Granby," but among intimates as "Dicki- 
son's." A large low room with a sanded floor, a cold scent of 
tobacco, modified by undetected beer-dregs, Mr. Dickison lean- 
ing against the door-post with a melancholy pimpled face, look- 
ing as irrelevant to the daylight as a last night's guttered can- 
dle — ^all this may not seem a very seductive form of tempta- 
tion ; but the majority of men in Basset found it fatally aUur- 
ing when encountered on their road toward four o'clock on a 
wintry afternoon ; and if any wife in Basset wished to indicate 
that her bwshand was not a pleasure-seeking m^Lii) ^\i^ co^o^^ 



72 THE MnX ON THS FLOSS. 

hardly do it more emphatically than by saying that he didn't 
spend a shilling at Dickison's from one Whitsuntide to another. 
Mrs. Moss had said so of her husband more than once, when 
her brother was in a mood to find fault with him, as he cer- 
tainly was to-day. And nothing could be less pacif3dDg to 
Mr. Tulliver than the behavior of the farm-yard gate, which he 
no sooner attempted to push open with his riding-stick than it 
acted as gates without the upper hinge are known to do, to 
the peril of shins, whether equine or human. He was about to 
get down and lead his horse through the damp dirt of the hol- 
low farm-yard, shadowed drearily by the large, half-timbered 
buildings, up to the long line of timible-down dwelling-house 
standing on a raised causeway, but the timely s^pearance of a 
cowboy saved him that frustration of a plan he had determ- 
ined on — ^namely, not to get down from his horse during this 
visit. If a man means to be hard, let him keep in his saddle 
and speak from that heiffht, above the level of pleading eyes, 
and with the command of a distant horizon. Mrs. Moss heard 
the sound of the horse's feet, and, when her brother rode up, 
was already outside the kitchen door, with a half-weary smile 
on her face, and a black-eyed baby in her arms. Mrs. Moss's 
face bore a faded resemblance to her brother's ; baby's Httle 
fat hand, pressed against her cheek, seemed to show more 
strikingly that the cheek was faded. 

" Brother, I'm glad to see you," she said, in an affectionate 
tone. " I didn't look for you to-day. How do you do ?" 

" Oh .... pretty well, Mrs. Moss .... pretty well," an- 
swered the brother, with cool deliberation, as if it were rather 
too forward of her to ask that question. She knew at once 
that her brother was not in a good humor: he never called 
her Mrs. Moss except when he was angry and when they were 
in company. But she thought it was in the order of nature 
that people who were poorly off should be snubbed. Mrs. 
Moss did not take her stand on the equaUty of the human 
race ; she was a patient, prolific, loving-hearted woman.- 

" Your husband isn't m the house, I suppose ?" asked Mr. 
Tulliver, after a grave pause, during which four children had 
run out, like chickens whose mother has been suddenly in 
eclipse behind the hencoop. 

" No," said Mrs. Moss, " but he's only in the potato-field 
yonders. Georgy, run to the Far Close in a minute, and tell 
father your uncle's come. You'll get down, brother, won't 
you, and take something ?" 

"No, no, I can't get down. I must be ^oing home again 
directly," said Mr. Tulliver, looking at the distance. 

" And how's Mrs. Tulliver and the children ?" said Mrs. 
Mo88j humbly, not daring to press her invitation. 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 73 

" Oh .... pretty well. Tom's going to a new school at 
Midsummer — a deal of expense to me. fii's bad work for me, 
lying out o' my money." 

"I wish you'd be so good as let the children come and see 
their cousins some day. My little uns want to see their 
cousin Maggie so as never was. And me her godmother, and 
so fond of her — ^there's nobody 'ud make a bigger fuss with 
her, according to what thejrVe got. And I know she Hkes to 
come, for she^s a loving child, and how quick and clever she 
is, to be sure !" 

If Mrs. Moss had been one of the most astute women in the 
world, instead of being one of the simplest, she could have 
thouglxt of nothing more likely to propitiate her brother than 
this praise of Maggie. He seldom found any one volunteering 
praise of " the littie wench :" it was usually left entirely to 
iiimself to insist on her merits. But Maggie always appeared 
in the most amiable light at her aunt Moss's : it was her Al- 
satia, where she was out of the reach of law — ^if she upset any 
thing, dirtied her shoes, or tore her frock, these things were 
matters of course at her aunt Moss's. In spite of himself, Mr. 
Tulliver's eyes got milder, and he did not look away from his 
sister as he said, 

" Ay, she's fonder o' you than o' the other aunts, I think. 
She takes after our family — ^not a bit of her mother's in her." 

" Moss says she's just like what I used to be," said Mrs. 
Moss, " though I was never so quick and fond o' the books. 
But I think my Lizzie's hke her — ahs^a sharp. Come here, 
Lizzy, my dear, and let your xmcle see you : he hardly knows 
you, yQu grow so fast." 

LaziEy, a black-eyed child of seven, looked very shy when 
her mother drew her forward, for the small Mosses were much 
in awe of their uncle from Dorlcote Mill. She was inferior 
enongh to Maggie in fire and strength of expression to make 
the resemblance between the two entirely flattering to Mr. 
Tulliver's fatherly love. 

" Ay, they're a bit alike," he said, looking kindly at the lit- 
tle figure in the soiled pinafore. ^^They both take after our 
mother. You've got enough o' gells. Gritty," he added, in a 
tone half compassionate, hau reproachful. 

**Four of '^em, bless 'em," said Mrs. Moss, with a sigh, 
stroking Xizzy's hair on each side of her forehead; ''as many 
as there's boys. They've got a brother apiece.'* 

**Ah! but they must turn out and fend for themselves," 
said Mr. Tulliver, feeling that his severity was relaxing, and 
trying to brace it by throwing out a wholesome hint. " They 
mustn't look to hanging on their brothers." 

D 



74 THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

" No ; but I hope their brothers 'ull love the poor things, 
and remember they came o' one father and mother : the lads 
'ull never be the poorer for that," said Mrs. Moss, flashing out 
with hurried timidity, like a half-smothered fire. 

Mr. TuUiver gave his horse a little stroke on the flank, then 
checked it, and said, angrily, " Stand still with you I" much to 
the astonishment of that innocent animal. 

. " And the more there is of 'em, the more they must love 
one another," Mrs. Moss went on, looking at her children with 
a didactic purpose. But she turned toward her brother again 
to say, " Not but what I hope your boy 'ull allays be good to 
his sister, though there's but two of 'em, like you and me, 
brother." 

That arrow went straight to Mr. Tulliver's heart. He had 
not a rapid imagination, but the thought of Maggie was very 
near to him, and he was not long in seeing his relation to 
his own sister side by side with Tom's relation to Maggie. 
Would the little wench ever be poorly off", and Tom rather 
hard upon her ? 

" Ay, ay. Gritty," said the miller, with a new softness in his 
tone, " but I've allays done what I could for you," he added, 
as if vindicating himself from a reproach. 

"I'm not denying that, brother, and I'm noways ungrate- 
ful," said poor Mrs. Moss, too fagged by toil and children to 
have strength left for any pride. "But here's the father. 
What a wmle you've been. Moss?" 

"While, do you call it?" said Mr. Moss, feeling out of 
breath and injured. " I've been running all the way. Won't 
you 'light, Mr. Tulliver ?" 

" Well, I'll just get down, and have a bit o' talk with you 
in the garden," said Mr. Tulliver, feeling that he should be 
more likely to show a due spirit of resolve if his sister were 
not present. 

He got down, and passed with Mr. Moss into the garden, 
toward an old yew-tree arbor, while his sister stood tapping 
her baby on the back, and looking wistftilly after them. 

Their entrance into the yew-tree arbor surprised several 
fowls that were recreating themselves by scratching deep 
holes in the dusty ground, and at once took flight with much 
pother and cackling. Mr. Tulliver sat down on the bench, and 
tapping the ground curiously here and there witii his stick, as 
if he suspected some hoUowness, opened the conversation by 
observing, with something like a snarl in his tone, 

" Why, you've got wheat again in that Corner Close, I see, 
and never a bit o' dressing on it. Tou'U do no good with it 
this year.'* 



TH£ MILL ON THS FLOSS. 75 

Mr. M0SS9 who, when he married Miss Tolliver, had been re- 
garded as the buck of Basset, now wore a beard nearly a week 
old, and had the depressed, unexpectant air of a machine- 
horse. He answered in a patient-grumbling tone, "Why, 
poor isomers like me must do as they can : they must leave it 
to them as have got money to play with to put half as much 
into the ground as they mean to get out of it." 

" I don't know who should have money to play with, if it 
isn't them as can borrow money without paying interest," said 
Mr. TuUiver, who wished to get into a slight quarrel ; it was 
the most natural and easy introduction to calling in money. 

" I know Fm behind with the interest," said Mr. Moss, " but 
I was so unlucky wi' the wool last year ; and what with the 
missis being laid up so, things have gone awk'arder nor usual." 

"Ay," snarled Mr. Tulliver, "there's folks as things 'ull 
allays go awk'ard with : empty sacks 'ull never stand upright." 

*' WeD, I don't know what fault you've got to find wi' me, 
Mr. Tulliver," said Mr. Moss, deprecatingly ; " I know there 
isn't a day-laborer works harder." 

" What's the use o' that," said Mr. Tulliver, sharply, " when 
a man marries, an's got no capital to work his farm but his 
wife's bit o' fortin ? I was agamst it from the first ; but you'd 
neither of you listen to me. And I can't lie out o' my money 
any longer, for I've got to pay five hundred o' Mrs. Glegg's, 
and there 'ull be Tom an expense to me, as I should find my- 
self short, even saying I'd got back all as is my own. You 
must look about and see how you can pay me the three hund- 
red pound." 

" WeU, if that's what you mean," said Mr. Moss, looking 
blankly before him, " we'd better be sold up, and ha' done with 
it ; I must part wi' every head o' stock I'n got to pay you and 
the landlord too." 

Poor relations are undeniably instating — ^their existence is 
so entirely uncalled for on our part, and they are almost al- 
ways very faulty people. Mr. Tulliver had succeeded in get- 
ting quite as much irritated with Mr. Moss as he had desired, 
and he was able to say angrily, rising from his seat, 

** Well, you must do as you can. I can't find money for 
every body else as well as myself. I must look to my own 
family. I can't lie out o' my money any longer. You must 
raise it as quick as you can." 

Mr. Tulliver walked abruptly out of the arbor as he uttered 
the last sentence, and, without looking round at Mr. Moss, 
went on to the kitchen door, where the eldest boy was hold- 
ing his horse, and his sister was waiting in a state of wonder- 
ing alarm, which was not without its alleviations, for baby was 



76 TU£ MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

making pleasant gurgling sounds, and performing a great deal 
of finger practice on the faded face. Mrs. Moss bad eight 
ohildren, but could never overcome her regret that the twms 
bad not lived. Mr. Moss thought their removal was not with- 
out its consolations, " Won't you come in, brother ?" she said, 
looking anxiously at her husband, who was walking slowly up, 
while Mr. Tulliver had his foot already in the stirrup. 

" No, no ; good-by," said he, turning his horse's head and 
riding away. 

No man could feel more resolute till he got outside the yard 
gate, and a little way along the deep-rutted lane; but before 
he reached the next turning, which would take him out of 
sight of the dilapidated farm-buildings, he appeared to be smit- 
ten by some sudden thought. He checked his horse, and made 
it stand still in the same spot for two or three minutes, during 
which he turned his head &om side to side in a melancholy 
way, as if he were looking at some painful object on more 
sides than one. Evidently, after his fit of promptitude, Mr. 
Tulliver was relapsing into the sense that this is a puzzling 
world. He turned his horse, and rode slowly back, giving 
vent to the climax of feeling which haddetermined this move- 
ment by saying aloud, as he struck his horse, "Poor little 
wench ! she'll have nobody but Tom, belike, when I'm gone." 

Mr. Tulliver's return into the yard was descried by several 
young Mosses, who immediately ran in with the exciting news 
to their mother, so that Mrs. Moss was again on the door-step 
when her brother rode up. She had been crying, but was rock- 
ing baby to sleep in her arms now, and made no ostentatious 
show of sorrow as her brother looked at her, but merely said, 

" The father's gone to the field again, if you want hini, 
brother." 

" No, Gritty, no," said Mr. Tulliver, in a gentle tone. " Don't 
you fret — ^that's all — ^I'll make a shift without the money a bit 

only you must be as cliver and contriving as you can." 

Mrs. Moss's tears came again at this unexpected kindness, 
and she could say nothing. 

"Come, come — ^the little wench shall come and see you. 
m bring her and Tom some day before he goes to scnool. 
You mustn't fret. ... I'll allays be a good brother to you." 
* " Thank you for that word, brother," said Mrs. Moss, dry- 
ing her tears; then turning to Lizzy, she said, "Run, now, 
and fetch the colored egg for cousin Maggie." Lizzy ran in, 
and quickly reappeared with a small paper parcel. 

" It's boiled hard, brother, and colored with thrums — very 
pretty ; it was done o' purpose for Maggie. Will you please 
to carry it in your pocket ?'* 



THS HILL ON THE FLOS8. 77 

^^ Ay, ay," said Mr. Tnlliver, putting it carefhlly in his side- 
pocket. " 6ood-by." 

And so the respectable miller retnmed along the Basset 
lanes rather more puzzled than before as to ways and means, 
bat .still with the sense of a danger escaped. It had come 
across his mind that if he were hard npon his sister, it might 
somehow tend to make Tom hard upon Maggie at some dis- 
tant day, when her father was no longer were to take her 
part ; for simple people, like our fiiend Mr. Tulliver, are apt to 
clothe unimpeachable feelings in erroneous ideas, and this was 
his confused way of explaming to himself that his love and 
anxiety for '^ the Uttle wench" had given him a new sensibility 
toward his sister. 



CHAPTER IX. 

TO GABFM FIBS. 



Whilb the possible troubles of Maggie's future were occu- 
pying her Other's mind, she herself was tasting onl^ the bit- 
terness of the present. Childhood has no forebodmgs ; but 
then, it is soothed by no memories of outlived sorrow. 

The fact was, the day had begun ill with Maggie. The 
pleasure of having Lucy to look at, and the prospect of the 
afternoon visit to Grarum Firs, where she would near uncle 
Pullet's musical-box, had been marred as early as eleven o'clock 
by the advent of the hair-dresser from St. Ogg's, who had spoken 
in the severest terms of the condition in which he had found 
her hair, holding up one jagged lock after another, and saying, 
" See here ! tut — ^tut — ^tut !" in a tone of mingled disgust and 
pity^ which to Maggie's imagination was equivalent to the 
strongest expression of public opinion. Mr. Kappit, the hair- 
dresser, with his well-anointed coronal locks tending wavily 
upward, like the simulated pyramid of flame on a monumental 
urn, seemed to her at that moment the most formidable of her 
contemporaries, into whose street at St. Ogg's she would care- 
fully refrain from entering through the rest of her life. 

Moreover, the preparation for a visit being always a serious 
affair in tiie Dodson familv, Martha was enjoined to have Mrs. 
Tulliver's room ready an hour earlier than usual, that the lay- 
ing out of the best clothes might not be deferred tiU the last 
moment, as was sometimes the case in families of lax views, 
where the ribbon-strings were never rolled up, where there 
was little or no wrapping in silver paper, and where the sense 
that the Sunday clothes could be got, at quite easily produced 



Y8 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

no shock to the mind. Akeady, at twelve o'clock, Mrs. Tulli- 
ver had on her visiting costume, with a protective apparatus 
of brown holland, as if she had been a piece of satin nimitnre 
in danger of flies ; Maggie was frowning and twisting her 
shoulders, that she might, if possible, shrink away from, the 
prickliest of tuckers, while her mother was remonstrating, 
" Don't, Maggie, my dear—don't look so ugly !" and Tours 
cheeks were looking particularly brilliant as a relief to his best 
blue suit, which he wore with becoming calmness ; having, 
after a little^ wrangling, effected what was always the one 
point of interest to him in his toilette — ^he had transferred all 
the contents of his every-day pockets to those actually in wear. 

As for Lucy, she was just as pretty and neat as she had 
been yesterday: no accidents ever happened to her clothes, 
and she was never uncomfortable in them, so that she looked 
with wondering pity at Maggie pouting and writhing under 
the exasperating tucker. Maggie .would certainly have torn 
it offi if she had not been checked by the remembrance of her 
recent humiliation about her hair ; as it was, she confined her- 
self to fretting and twisting, and behaving peevishly about the 
card-houses which they were allowed to build till dinner, as a 
suitable amusement for boys and girls in their best clothes. 
Tom could build perfect pyramids of houses, but Maggie's 
would never bear the laying on of the roof: it was always so 
with the things that Maggie made ; and Tom had deduced the 
conclusion that no girls could ever make any thing. But it 
happened that Lucy proved wonderfully clever at building; 
she handled the cards so lightly, and moved so gently, that 
Tom condescended to admire her houses as well as his own, 
the more readily because she had asked him to teach her. 
Maggie, too, would have admired Lucy's houses, and would 
have given up her own unsuccessful building to contemplate 
them, without ill-temper, if her tucker had not made her peev- 
ish, and if Tom had not inconsiderately laughed when her 
houses fell, and told her she was " a stupid." 

" Don't laugh at me, Tom !" she burst out, angrily ; ** Pm 
not a stupid. I know a great many things you don't." 

" Oh, 1 dare say. Miss Spitfire I I'd never be such a cross 
thing as you, maMng faces like that. Lucy doesn't do so. I 
like Lucy better than you : Z wish Lucy was my sister." 

"Then it's very wicked and cruel of you to wish so," said 
Maggie, starting up hurriedly from her place on the floor, and 
upsetting Tom's wonderful pagoda. She really did not mean 
it, but the circumstantial evidence was against her, and Tom 
turned white with anger, but said nothing ; he would have 
struck her, only he knew it was cowardly to strike a girl, and 



THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 79 

Tom Tnlliver was quite determined that he would never do 
any thing cowardly. 

Maggie stood in dismay and terror while Tom got np fi*om 
the floor and walked away, pale, £rom the scattered rums of 
his pagoda, and Lucy looked on mutely, like a kitten pausing 
from its lapping. 

" Oh, Tom," said Maggie, at last, going half way toward 
him, ** I didn't mean to knock it down — indeed, indeed I 
didn't." 

Tom took no notice of her, but took, instead, two or three 
hard peas out of his pocket, and shot them with his thumb- 
nail against the window — vaguely at first, but presently with 
the distinct aim of hitting a superannuated blue-bottle which 
was exposing its imbecility in the spring sunshine, clearly 
against the views of nature, who had provided Tom and the 
peas for the speedy destruction of this weak individual. 

Thus the mormng had been made heavy to Maggie, and 
Tom's persistent coldness to her all through their waS spoiled 
the fresh air and sunshine for her. He called Lucy to look at 
the half-built ^bird's nest without caring to show it Maggie, 
and peeled a willow switch for Lucy and himself without of- 
fering one to Maggie. Lucy had said, '^Maggie, shouldn't 
you Eke one ?" but Tom was deaf. 

Still the sight of the peacock opporti^iely spreading his tail 
on the stack-yard wall, just as they reached Garom Firs, was 
enough to divert the mind temporarily from personal griev- 
ances. And this was only the beginning of beautiful sights at 
Garum Firs. All the farm-yard life was wonderful ^ere — 
bantams, speckled and top-knotted ; Friesland hens, with their 
feathers au turned the wrong way; Guinearfowls that flew, 
and screamed, and dropped then* pretty-spotted feathers; 
pouter pigeons and a tame magpie ; nay, a goat, and a won- 
derM brindled dog, half masti^ half bull-dog, as large as a 
lion. Then there were white railings and white gates all about, 
and glittering weathercocks of various designs, and garden- 
walks paved with pebbles in beautiful patterns — ^nothing was 
quite common at Garum Firs ; and Tom thought that the un- 
usual size of the toads there was simply due to the general 
nnnsnalness which characterized uncle !rullet's possessions as a 
gentleman farmer. Toads who paid rent were naturally lean- 
er. As for the house, it was not less remarkable : it had a re- 
ceding centre, and two wings with battlemented turrets, and 
was covered with glittering white stucco. 

Uncle Pullet had seen the expected party approaching from 
the window, and made haste to unbar and unchain the front 
door, kept always in this fortified condition from fear of tramps. 



80 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

who might be supposed to know of the glass-case of stuffed 
birds in the hall, and to contemplate rushing in and carrying it 
away on their heads. Aunt Pullet, too, appeared at the door- 
way, and as soon as her sister was witmn nearing, said, ^^ Stop 
the children, for God's sake, Bessy ; don't let 'em come up the 
door-steps ; Sally's bringing the old mat and the duster to rub 
their shoes." 

Mrs. Pullet's front-door mats were by no means intended to 
wipe shoes on : the very scraper had a deputy to do its dirty 
work. Tom rebelled particularly against this shoe-wipinff, 
which he always considered in the light of an indignity to his 
sex. He felt it as the beginning of the disagreeables incident 
to a visit at aunt Pullet's, where he had once been compelled 
to sit with towels wrapped round his boots — a fact which may 
serve to correct the too hasty conclusion that a visit to Garum 
Firs must have been a great treat to a young gentleman fond 
of animals — ^fond, that is, of throwing stones at them. 

The next disagreeable was confined to his feminine com- 

E anions : it was the mounting of the polished oak stairs, which 
ad very handsome carpets rolled up and laidJby in a spare 
bedroom, so that the ascent of these glossy steps might have 
served, in barbarous times, as a trial by ordeal from which 
none but the most spotless virtue could have come off with 
unbroken limbs. Sophy's weakness about these polished stairs 
was always a subject of bitter remonstrance on Mrs. Gleeg's 
part ; but Mrs. Tulliver ventured on no comment, only thmk- 
mg to herself it was a mercy when she and the children were 
safe on the landing. 

" Mrs. Gray has sent home my new bonnet, Bessy," said Mrs. 
Pullet, in a pathetic tone, as Mrs. Tulliver adjusted her cap. 

"Has she, sister?" said Mrs. Tulliver, with an air of much 
interest. " And how do you like it ?" 

" It's apt to make a mess with clothes, taking 'em out and 
putting 'em in again," said Mrs. Pullet, drawing a bunch of 
keys from her pocket and looking at them earnestly, "but it 
*ud be a pity for you to go away without seeing it. There's 
no knowing what may happen." 

^ Mrs. Pullet shook ner head slowly at this last serious con- 
sideration, which determined her to single out a particular key. 

" Pm afraid it '11 be troublesome to you gettmg it out, sis- 
ter," said Mrs. Tulliver, "but I shoidd Ijke to see what sort of 
a crown she's made you." 

Mrs. Pullet rose with a melancholy air and unlocked one 
wing of a very bright wardrobe, where you may have hastily 
supposed she would find the new bonnet. Not at all. Such 
a supposition could only have arisen from a too superficial ao- 



THE MILL OK THB 11.0SS. 81 

qnaintance with the habits .of the Dodson family. In this 
wardrobe Mrs. Pullet was seeking something small enough to 
be hidden among layers of linen — ^it was a door-key. 

" You must come with me into the best room," said Mrs- 
Pullet. 

" May the children come too, sister ?" inquired Mrs. Tul- 
liver, who saw that Maggy and Lucy were looking rather 
eager. 

"Well," said aunt Pullet, reflectively, "it '11 perhaps be 
safer for 'em to come — ^they'll be toucmng something if we 
leave 'em behind." 

So tliey went in procession along the bright and slippery 
corridor, dimly lighted by the semilunar top of the window 
which rose above the closed shutter : it was really quite sol- 
emn. Aunt Pullet paused and unlocked a door which opened 
on something still more solemn than the passage — a darkened 
room, in which the outer light, entering feebly, showed what 
looked like the corpses of furniture in white shrouds. Eveiy 
thing that was not shrouded stood with its legs upward. 
Lucy laid hold of Maggie's frock, and Maggie's heart beat 
rapidly. 

Aunt Pullet half opened the shutter, and then unlocked the 
wardrobe with a melancholy deliberateness which was quite 
in keeping with the funeral solemnity of the scene. The do* 
ticious scent of rose-leaves that issued from the wardrobe made 
the process of taking out sheet after sheet of silver paper quite 
pleasant to assist at, though the sight of the bonnet at last was 
an antidimaz to Maggie, who would have preferred something 
more preternatural. But few things could have been more 
impressive to Mrs. Tulliver. She looked all roxmd it in silence 
for some moments, and then said emphatically, " Wdl, sister, 
ril never speak against the full crowns again !" 

It was a great Concession, and Mrs. Pullet felt it : she felt 
something was due to it. 

" You'd like to see it on, sister ?" she said, sadly. " I'll open 
the shutter a bit farther." 

"Well, if you don't mind taking off your cap, sister," said 
Mrs. Tulliver. 

Mrs. Pullet took off her cap, displaying the brown silk scalp 
with a jutting promontory of curls which was common to the 
mature and judicious women of those times, and, placing the 
bonnet on her head, turned slowly round, like a draper's lay- 
figure, that Mrs. Tulliver might miss no point of view. 

"I've sometimes thought there's a loop too much o' ribbon 
on this left side, sister ; what do you think ?" said Mrs. Pullet 

Mrs. Tulliver looked earnestly at the point indicated, and 

D2 



82 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

turned her head on one side. " Well, I think it's best as it is ; 
if you meddled with it, sister, you might repent." 

" That's true," said aunt Pullet, taking pff the bonnet and 
looking at it contemplatively. 

" How much might she charge you for that bonnet, sister?" 
SJdd Mrs. Tulliver, whose mind was actively engaged on the 
possibility of getting a humble imitation of this chef d*ceuvre 
made from a piece of silk she had at home. 

Mrs. Pullet screwed up her mouth and shook her head, and 
then whispered, "Pullet pays for it; he said I was to have 
the best bonnet at Garum Church, let the next best be whose 
it would." 

She began slowly to adjust the trimmings in preparation, 
for returning it to its place iii the wardrobe, and her thoughts 
seemed to have taken a melancholy turn, for she shook her 
head. 

" Ah !" she said at last, " I may never wear it twice, sister ; 
who knows ?" 

"Don't talk o' that, sister," answered Mrs. Tulliver. "I 
hope you'll have your health this summer." 

" Ah ! but there may come a death in the family, as there 
did soon after I had my green satin bonnet. Cousin Abbott 
may go, and we can't think o' wearing crape less than half a 
year for him." 

" That would be unlucky," said Mrs. Tulliver, entering thor- 
oughly into the possibility of an inopportune decease. " There's 
never so much pleasure i' wearing a bonnet the second year, 
especially when the crowns are so chancy — ^never two sum- 
mers alike." 

" Ah ! it's the way i' this world," said Mrs. Pullet, return- 
ing the bonnet to the wardrobe and locking it up. She main- 
tained a silence characterized by head-shaking until they had 
all issued from the solemn chamber and were in her own room 
again. Then, beginning to cry, she said, " Sister, if you should 
never see that bonnet again till I'm dead and gone, you'll re- 
member I showed it you this day." 

Mrs. Tulliver felt that she ought to be affected, but she was 
a woman of sparse tears, stout aqd healthy ; she couldn't ciy 
so much as her sister Pullet did, and had often felt her den- 
ciency at funerals. Her effort to bring tears into her eyes is- 
sued in an odd contraction of her face. Maggie, looking on 
attentively, felt that there was some painful mystery about her 
aunt's bonnet which she was considered too young to under- 
stand ; indignantly conscious, all the while, that she could have 
imderstood that, as well as every thing else, if she had been 
talren into confidence. 



THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 88 

When they went down, nncle Pullet observed, with some 
acnmen, that he reckoned the missis had been showing her 
bonnet — that was what had made them so long up stairs. 
With Tom the interval had seemed still longer, for he had been 
seated in irksome constraint on the edge of a sofa directly op- 
posite his unde Pullet, who regarded him with twinkling gray 
eyes, and occasionally addressed him as '^ Young sir." 

" Well, young sir, what do you learn at school ?" was a 
standing question with uncle Pullet ; whereupon Tom always 
looked sheepish, rubbed his hand across his face, and answer- 
ed, " I don't know." It was altogether so embarrassing to be 
seated tete-Ortete with uncle Pullet that Tom could not even 
look at the prints on the walls, or the fly-cages, or the wonder- 
ful flower-pots ; he saw nothing but his uncle's gaiters. Not 
that Tom was in awe of his uncle's mental superiority ; indeed, 
he had made up his mind that he didn't want to be a gentle- 
man farmer, because he shouldn't like to be such a thin-legged 
silly fellow as his imcle Pullet — a mollycoddle, in fact. A boy's 
sheepishness is by no means a sign of overmastering reverence ; 
and while you are making encouraging advances to lim under 
the idea that he is overwhelmed by a sense of your age and 
wisdom, ten to one he is thinking you extremely queer. The 
only consolation I can suggest to you is, that the Greek boys 
probably thought the same of Aristotle. It is only when you 
have mastered a restive horse, or thrashed a drayman, or have 
got a gun in your hand, that these shy juniors feel you to be a 
truly admirable and enviable character. At least, I am quite 
sure of Tom Tulliver's sentiments on these points. In very 
tender years, when he still wore a lace border under his out- 
door cap, he was often observed peeping through the bars of 
a gate, and making minatory gestures with his small forefinger 
while he scolded the sheep with an inarticulate burr, intended 
to strike terror into their astonished minds ; indicating thus 
early that desire for mastery over the inferior animals, wild 
and domestic, including cockchafers, neighbors' dogs, and small 
sisters, which in all ages has been an attribute of so much prom- 
ise for the fortunes of our race. Now Mr. Pullet never rode 
any thing taller than a low pony, and was the least predatory of 
men, considering fire-arms dangerous, as apt to go off of them- 
selves by nobody's particular desire. So that Tom was not 
without strong reasons when, in confidential talk with a chum, 
he had described uncle Pullet as a nincompoop, taking care at 
the same time to observe that he was a very " rich fellow." 

The only alleviating circumstance in a tete-a-tete with uncle 
Pidlet was that he kept a variety of lozenges and peppermint 
drops about his person, and when at a loss for conversation. 



64 THE BOLL ON THE FLOSS. 

he filled np the void by proposing a mataal solace of this 
kind. 

" Do you like peppermints, young sir ?" required only a tacit 
answer when it was accompanied by a presentation of the ar- 
ticle in question. 

The appearance of the little girls suggested to uncle Pullet 
the further solace of small sweet-cakes, 6f which he also kept 
a stock under lock and key for his own private eating on wet 
days ; but the three children had no sooner got the tempting 
delicacy between their fingers than aunt Pullet desired them 
to abstain from eating it tiU the tray and the plates came, since 
with those crisp cakes they would make the floor " all over^ 
crumbs. Lucy didn't mind that much, for the cake was so 
pretty, she thought it was rather a pity to eat it ; but Tom, 
watching his opportunity while the elders were talking, hasti- 
ly stowed it in ms mouth at two bites, and chewed it furtively. 
As for Maggie, becoming fascinated, as usual, by a print of 
Ulysses and Nausicaa, which uncle Pullet had Dought as a 
*' pretty Scripture thing," she presently let fall her cake, and 
in an unlucky movement crushed it beneath her foot — a source 
of so much agitation to aunt Pullet and conscious disgrace to 
Maggie, that she began to despair of hearing the musical snuff- 
box to-day, till, after some reflection, it occurred to her that 
Lucy was in high favor enough to venture on asking for a 
tune. So she whispered to Lucy, and Lucy, who always did 
what she was desired to do, went up quietly to her uncle's 
knee, and, blushing all over her neck while she fingered her 
necklace, said, " Will you please play us a tune, uncle ?'* 

Lucy thought it was by reason of some exceptional talent in 
uncle Pullet that the snuff-box played such beautiful tunes, and, 
indeed, the thing was viewed m that light by the majority of 
his neighbors in Garum. Mr. Pullet had hougM the box, to 
begin with, and he understood winding it up, and knew which 
tune it was going to play beforehand ; altogether, the posses- 
sion of this unique " piece of music" was a proof that Mr. Pul- 
let's character was not of that entire nullity which might oth- 
erwise have been attributed to it. But uncle Pullet, when en- 
treated to exhibit his accomplishment, never depreciated it by 
a too ready consent. "We'll see about it," was the answer he 
always gave, carefully abstaining from any sign of compliance 
till a smtable number of minutes had passed. Uncle Pullet 
had a programme for all great social occasions, and in this way 
fenced himself in from much painful confusion and perplexing 
freedom of will. 

Perhaps the suspense did heighten Maggie's enjoyment when 
the fairy tune began : for the first time she quite forgot that 






THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 85 

fthe had a load on her mind — ^that Tom was angry with her ; 
and by the time " Hush, ye pretty warbling choir,'* had been 
played, her fece wore that bright look of happiness, while she 
sat iBunoyable with her hands clasped, which sometimes com- 
forted her mother with the sense that Maggie could look pret- 
ty now and then, in spite of her brown skin. But when the ^-^ 
magic music ceased, she jumped up, and, running toward Tom, , 
put her arm round his neck and said, " Oh, Tom, isn't it pret- ,' 
ty?» 

Lest you should think it a revolting insensibility in Tom 
that be felt any new anger toward Maggie for this uncalled- 
for, and, to him, inexplicable caress, I must tell you that he had 
his glass of cowslip wine in his hand, and that she jerked him 
80 as to make him spill half of it. He must have been an ex- 
treme milksop not to say angrily, " Look there, now !" espe- 
oiaUy when his resentment was sanctioned, as it was, by gen- 
eral disapprobation of Maggie's behavior. 

** Why don't you sit still, Maggie ?" her mother said, peev- 
ishly. 

" Little gells mustn't come to see me if they behave m that 
way," said aunt Pullet. 

** Why, you're too rough, little miss," said uncle Pullet. 

Poor Maggie sat down again, with the music all chased out 
of her soul, and the seven small demons all in again. 

Mrs. Tulliver, foreseeing nothiug but misbehavior while the 
children remained in-doors, took an early opportunity of sug- 
gesting that, now they were rested after their walk, they might 
go and play out of doors ; and aunt Pullet gave permission, 
only enjoining them not to go off the paved walks in the gar- 
den, and if they wanted to see the poultry fed, to view them 
from a dbtance on the horse-block — a restriction which had 
been imposed ever siace Tom had been found guilty of running 
after the peacock, with an illusory idea that fright would make 
one of its feathers drop off. 

Mrs. Tulliver's thoughts had been temporarily diverted from 
the quarrel with Mrs. Glegg by millinery and maternal cares ; 
but, now the great theme of the bonnet was thrown into per- 
spective, and the children were out of the way, yesterday's 
anxieties recurred. 

" It weighs on my mind so as never was," she said, by way 
of opening the subject, " sister Glegg's leaving the house in 
that way. Pm sure I'd no wish t' onend a sister." 

" Ah !" said aunt PuUet, " there's no accounting for what 
Jane 'nil do. I wouldn't speak of it out o' the family — ^if it 
wasn't to Dr.Tumbull ; but it's my belief Jane lives too low. 
Fve said so to PuUet often and often, and he knows it." 



86 THE HILL ON THE FLOSS. 

" Why, you said so last Monday was a week, when we came 
away from drinking tea with 'em," said Mr. Pullet, beginning 
to nurse his knee and shelter it with his pocket-handkerchief 
as was his way when the conversation took an interesting 
turn. 

"Very like I did,'*' said Mrs. Pullet, "for you remember 
when I said things better than I can remember myself. He's 
got a wonderful memory. Pullet has," she continued, looking 
pathetically at her sister. " I should be poorly off if he was to 
have a stroke, for he always remembers when I've got to take 
my doctor's stuff— and I'm taking three sorts now." 

" There's the ' pills as before' every other night, and the new 
drops at eleven and four, and the 'fervescing mixture * when 
agreeable,' " rehearsed Mr. Pullet, with a punctuation determ- 
ined by a lozenge on his tongue. 

" Ah ! perhaps it 'ud be better for sister- Glegg if «Ae'd go 
to the doctor sometimes instead o' chewing Turkey rhubarb 
whenever there's any thing the matter with her," said Mrs. 
Tulliver, who naturally saw the wide subject of medicine chief- 
ly in relation to Mrs. Glegg. 

" It's dreadful to think on," said aunt Pullet, raising her» 
hands and letting them fall again, " people playing with their 
own insides in that way I And it's flying i' the face o' Provi- 
dence ; for what are tne doctors for if we aren't to call 'em 
ia ? And when folks have got the money to pay for a doctor, 
it isn't respectable, as I've told Jane many a time. Tm 
ashamed of acquaintance knowing it." 

" Well, we\e no call to be ashamed," said Mr. Pullet, " for 
.Doctor TurnbuU hasn't got such another patient as you i' this 
parish, now old. Mrs. Sutton's gone." 

" Pullet keeps all my physic-bottles — did you know, Bessy ?" 
said Mrs. Pullet. " He won't have one sold. He says it's 
nothing but right folks should see 'em when I'm gone. They 
fill two of the long store-room shelves a'ready — ^but," she ada- 
ed, beginning to cry, " it's well if they ever fill three. I may 
go before I've made up the dozen of these last sizes. The pill- 
boxes are in the closet in my room — ^you'll remember that, sis- 
ter — ^but there's nothing to show for the boluses, if it isn't the 
bills." 

"Don't talk o' your going, sister," said Mrs. Tulliver; "I 
should have nobody to stand between me and sister Glegg if 
you was gone. And there's nobody but you can get her to 
make it up wi' Mr. Tulliver, for sister Deane's never o' my side, 
and if she was, it's not to be looked for as she can speak like 
them as have got an independent fortin." 

" Well, your husband is awk'ard, you know, Bessy," said 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 87 

Mr8« Pallet, ^ood-naturedly ready to use her deep depression 
on her sisters account as well as her own. " He's never be- 
haved quite so pretty to our family as he should do, and the 
children take after him — ^the boy's very mischievous, and runs 
away from his aunts and tmcles, and the gell's rude and 
brown. It's your bad luck, and I'm sorry for you, Bessy ; for 
you was allays my favorite sister, and we allaya liked the same 
patterns." 

*'I know Tulliver's hasty, and says odd things," said Mrs. 
Tulliver, wiping away one small tear from the comer of her 
eye, " but I'm sure he's never been the man, since he married 
me, to object to my making the friends o' my side o' the family 
welcome to the house." 

"Z don't want to make the worst of you, Bessy," said Mrs, 
Pullet, compassionately, "for I doubt you'll have trouble enough 
without that ; and your husband's got that poor sister and her 
children hanging on him, and so given to lawing, they say. I 
doubt he'll leave you poorly off when he dies. Not as I'd have 
it said out o' the famUy." 

This view of her position was naturally far from cheering to 
« Mrs. Tulliver. Her imagination was not easily acted on, but 
she could not help thinking that her case was a hard one, since 
it appeared that other people thought it hard. 

" I'm sure, sister, I can't help myself," she said, urged by 
the fear lest her anticipated misfortunes might be held retrib- 
utive, to take a comprehensive review of her past conduct. 
" There's no woman strives more for her children ; and I'm 
sure, at scouring-time this Ladyday, as Fve had all the bed- 
hangings taken down, I did as much as the two gells put to- 
gether; and there's this last elder-flower wine I've made — 
beautiful ! I allays offer it along with the sherry, though sis- 
ter Glegg will have it I'm so extravagant ; and as for liking to 
have my clothes tidy, and not go a fright about the house, 
there's nobody in the parish can say any thing against me in 
respect o' backbiting and making mischief, for I don't wish 
any body any harm ; and nobody loses by sending me a pork- 
pie, for my pies are fit to show with the best o' my neighbors' ; 
and the mien's so in order, as if I was to die to-morrow I 
shouldn't be ashamed. A woman can do no more nor she 



can." 



" But it's all o' no use, you know, Bessy," said Mrs. Pullet, 
holding her head on one side, and fixing her eyes pathetically 
on her sister, " if your husband makes away with his money. 
Not but what if you was sold up, and other folks bought your 
furniture, it's a comfort to think as you've kept it well rubbed. 
And there's the linen, with your maiden mark on, might go all 



88 THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

over the country. It 'ud be a sad pity for your family." Mrs. 
Pullet shook her head slowly. 

" But what can I do, sister ?" said Mrs. Tulliver. " Mr. 
Tulliver*s not a man to be dictated to — ^not if I was to go to 
the parson, and get by heart what I should tell my husband 
for the best. And Fm sure I don't pretend to know any thing 
about putting out money and all that. I could never see into 
men's business as sister Glegg does." 

" Well, you're like me in that, Bessy," said Mrs. Pullet ; " and 
I think it 'ud be a deal more becoming o' Jane if she'd have 
that pier-glass rubbed oftener — ^there was ever so many spots 
on it last week — ^instead o' dictating to folks as have more 
comings in than she ever had, and telling 'em what they've to 
do with their money. But Jane and me were allays contrairy : 
she would have striped things, and I like spots. You like a 
spot too, Bessy : we allays hung together i' that." 

Mrs. Pullet, affected by this last reminiscence, looked at her 
sister pathetically. 

" Yes, Sophy," said Mrs. Tulliver, " I remember our having 
a blue ground with a white spot both alike — ^I've got a bit in 
a bed-quilt now ; and if you would but eo and see sister Glegg, 
and persuade her to make it up with TuUiver, I should take it 
very kind of you. You was allays a good sister to me." 

" But the right thing 'ud be for TiSliver to go and make it 
up with her himself, and say he was sorry for speaking so rash. 
If he's borrowed money of her, he shouldn't be above that," 
said Mrs. Pullet, whose partiality did not blind her to princi- 
ples : she did not forget what was due to people of independ- 
ent fortune. 

" It's no use talking o' that," said poor Mrs. TuUiver, almost 
peevishly. " If I was to go down on my bare knees on the 
gravel to Tulliver, he'd never humble himself." 

" Well, you can't expect me to persuade Jane to beg par- 
don," said Mrs. Pullet. "Her temper's beyond every thmg; 
it's well if it doesn't carry her off her mind, though there nev- 
er was any of our family went to a mad-house." 

" Fm not thinking of her begging pardon," said Mrs. Tulli- 
ver. " But if she'd just take no notice, and not call her mon- 
ey in ; as it's not so much for one sister to ask of another ; time 
'ud mend things, and Tulliver 'ud forget all about it, and they'd 
be friends agam." 

Mrs. Tulliver, you perceive, was not aware of her husband's 
irrevocable determination to pay in the five hundred poimds ; 
at least such a determination eif ceeded her powers of belief. 

'* Well, Bessy," said Mrs. Pullet, mournfully, "Z don't want 
to help you on to ruin. I won't be behindhand i' doing you a 



THE MILL ON THE FL08S. 89 

good turn, if it is to be done. And I don't like it said among 
acqnaintaDce as weVe got quarrels in the fanuly. I shall teU 
Jane that ; and I don't mind driving to Jane's to-morrow, if 
Pullet doesn't mind. What do you say, Mr. PuDet ?" 

" Fve no objections," said Mr. Pullet, who was perfectly con- 
tented with any course the quarrel might take, so that Mr. 
Tulliver did not apply to him for money. Mr. Pullet was nerv- 
ous about his investments, and did not see how a man could 
have any security for his money unless he turned it into land. 

After a little farther discussion as to whether it would not 
he better for Mrs. Tulliver to accompany them on the visit to 
sister Glegg, Mrs. Pullet, observing that it was teartime, turn- 
ed to readi from a drawer a delicate damask napkin, which she 
pinned before her m the fashion of an apron. The door did, in 
tact, soon open, but instead of the tea-tray Sally introduced an 
object so startling that both Mrs. Pullet and Mrs. Tulliver gave 
a scream, causing uncle Pullet to swallow his lozenge — ^for the 
fifth time in his me, as he afterward noted. 



CHAPTER X. 

HAGGIS BEHAVES WOBSE THAN SHE EXPECTED. 

Thb startling object which thus made an epoch for uncle 
Pullet was no other than little Lucy, with one side of her per- 
son, from her small foot to her bonnet-crown, wet and discol- 
ored with mud, holding out two tiny blackened hands, and 
making a very piteous face. To account for this unprecedent- 
ed apparition m aunt Pullet's parlor, we must return to the 
moment when the three children went to play out of doors, 
and the small demons who had taken possession of Maggie's 
Boul at an early period of the day had returned in all the great- 
er force after a temporary absence. All the disagreeable rec- 
ollections of the morning were thick upon her, when Tom, 
whose displeasure toward her had been considerably refreshed 
by her foolish trick of causing him to upset his cowslip wine, 
said, " Here, Lucy, you come along with me," and walked off 
to the area where the toads were, as if there were no Maggie in 
existence. Seeing this, Maggie lingered at a distance, looking 
like a Medusa with her snakes cropped. Lucy was naturally 
pleased that cousin Tom was so good to her, and it was very 
amusing to see him tickling a fat toad with a piece of string 
when the toad was safe down the area, with an iron grating 
over him. Still Lucy wished Maggie to enjoy the spectacle 
abo, especially as she would doubtless find a name for the toad. 



90 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

and say what had been his past history ; for Lucy had a de- 
lighted semi-belief in Maggie's stories about Che live things 
they came upon by accident — ^how Mrs. Earwig had a wash at 
home, and one of her children had fallen into the hot copper, 
for which reafeon she was running so fast to fetch the doctor. 
Tom had a profound contempt for this nonsense of Maggie's, 
smashing the earwig at once as a superfluous yet easy meanis 
of proving the entire unreality of such a story ; but Lucy, for 
the life of her, could not help fancying there was something in 
it, and, at all events, thought it was very pretty make-believe. 
So now the desire to know the history of a very portly toad, 
added to her habitual aflectionateness, made her run back to 
Maggie and say, " Oh, there is such a big, funny toad, Maggie ! 
Do come and see." 

Maggie said nothing, but turned away from her with a deep- 
er frown. As long as Tom seemed to prefer Lucy to her, 
Lucy made part of his unkindness. Maggie would have 
thought a little while ago that she could never be cross with 
pretty little Lucy any more than she could be cruel to a little 
white mouse ; but then, Tom had always been quite indiflferent 
to Lucy before, and it had been left to Maggie to pet and 
make much of her. As it was, she was actually beginning to 
think that she should like to make Lucy cry by slapping or 
pinching her, especially as it might vex Tom, whom it was of 
no use to slap, even if she dared, because he didn't mind it. 
And if Lucy hadn't been there, Maggie was sure he would 
have got friends with her sooner. 

Tickling a fat toad who is not highly sensitive is an amuse- 
ment that it is possible to exhaust, and Tom by-and-by began 
to look round for some other mode of passing the time. Sut 
in so prim a garden, where they were not to go off the paved 
walks, there was not a great choice of sport. The only great 
pleasure such a restriction allowed was the pleasure of break- 
ing it, and Tom began to meditate an insurrectionary visit to 
the pond, about a field's length beyond the garden. 

"1 say, Lucy," he began, nodding his head up and down 
with great significance as he coiled up his string again, " what 
do you think I mean to do ?" 

" What, Tom ?" said Lucy, with curiosity. 

" I mean to go to the pond, and look at the pike. You may 
go with me if you like," said the young sultan. 

" Oh, Tom, dare you ?" said Lucy. " Aunt said we mustn't 
go out of the garden." 

" Oh, I shall go out at the other end of the garden," said 
Tom. " Nobody 'ull see us. Besides, I don't care if they do 
— ^I'll run off home." 



THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 91 

" But I cotddn't nm,'* said Lucy, who had never before been 
exposed to such severe temptation. 

** Oh, never mind ; they won't be cross with yow," said Tom. 
"You say I took you." 

Tom walked along, and Lucy trotted by his side, timidly en- 
joying the rare treat of doing something naughty — excited 
also by the mention of that celebrity, the pike, about which she 
was quite uncertain whether it was a fish or a fowl. Maggie 
saw mem leaving the garden, and could not resist the impulse 
to follow. Anger and jealousy can no more bear to lose sight 
of their objects than love, and that Tom and Lucy should do 
or see any thing of which she was ignorant would have been 
an intolerable idea to Maggie. So she kept a few yards behind 
them, unobserved by Tom, who was presently absorbed in 
watching for the pike — a highly interesting monster ; he was 
said to be so* very old, so very large, and to have such a re- 
markable appetite. The pike, like other celebrities, did not 
show; when he was watched for, but Tom caught sight of some- 
thing in rapid movement in the water, which attracted him to 
another spot on the brink of the pond. 

**Here, Lucy !" he said, in a loud whisper, "come here I take 
care! keep on the grass— don't step where the cows have 
been !" he added, pointing to a pemnsula of dry grass, with 
trodden mud on each side of it ; for Tom's contemptuous con- 
ception of a girl included the attribute of being unfit to walk 
in dirty places. 

Lucy came carefully as she was bidden, and bent down to 
look at what seemed a golden arrow-head darting through the 
water. It was a water-snake, Tom told her, and Lucy at last 
could see the serpentine wave of its body, very much wonder- 
ing that a snake could swim. Maggie had drawn nearer and 
nearer — she must see it too, though it was bitter to her like 
every thing else, since Tom did not care about her seeing it. 
At last she was close by Lucy, and Tom, who had been aware 
of her approach, but would not notice it till he was obliged, 
turned round and said, 

" Now get away, Maggie. There's no room for you on the 
grass here. Nobody asked you to come." 

There were passions at war in Maggie at that moment to 
have made a tragedy, if tragedies were made by passion only, 
but the essential n fxiyeOog which was present in the passion 
was wantiDg to the action ; the utmost Maggie could do, with 
a fierce thrust of her small brown arm, was to push poor little 
pink and white Lucy into the cow-trodden mud. 

Then Tom could not restrain himself, and gave Maggie two 
smart slaps on the arm as he ran to pick up Lucy, who lay cry- 



92 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

ing helplessly. Maggie retreated to the roots of a tree a few 
yards o^ and looked on impenitently. Usually her r^)entance 
came quickly after one rash deed, but now Tom and Lucy had 
jDiade her so miserable, she was glad to spoil their happiness-— 
glad to make eyery body uncomfortable. Why shoidd she be 
sorry ? Tom was very slow to forgive her, however sorry she 
might have been. 

" I shall tell mother, you know, Miss Mag," said Tom, loudly 
and emphatically, as soon as Lucy was up and ready to walk 
away. It was not Tom's practice to "tell," but here justice 
clearly demanded that Maggie should be visited with the ut- 
most punishment ; not that Tom had learned to put his views 
in that abstract form ; he never mentioned "justice," and had 
no idea that his desire to punish might be called b^ that fine 
name. Lucy was too enturely absorbed by the evil that had 
befallen her — ^the spoiling of her pretty best clothes, and the 
discomfort of being wet and dirty — ^to tnink much of tiie cause, 
which was entirely mysterious to her. She could never have 
guessed what she had done to make Maggie angrjr with her; 
but she felt that Maggie was very unkmd and disagreeable, 
and made no magnanimous entreaties to Tom that he wotild 
not " tell," only running along by his side and crying piteous- 
ly, while Maggie sat on the roots of the tree and looked after 
them with her small Medusa face. 

" Sally," said Tom, when they reached the kitchen door, and 
Sally looked at them in speechless amaze, with a piece of bread 
and butter in her mouth and a toasting fork in her hand, 
" Sally, tell mother it was Maggie pushed Lucy into the mud." 

" But Lors ha' massy, how did you get near such mud as 
that ?" said Sally, making a wry face as she stooped down and 
examined the corpus delicti. 

Tom's imagination had not been rapid and capacious enough 
to include this question among the foreseen consequences, but 
it was no sooner put than he foresaw whither it tended, and 
that Maggie would not be considered the only culprit in the 
case. He walked quietly away from the kitchen door, leaving 
Sally to that pleasure of guessing which active minds notori- 
ously prefer to ready-made knowledge. 

Sally, as you are aware, lost no time in presenting Lucy at 
the parlor door, for to have so dirty an object introduced mto 
the house at G^rum Firs was too great a weight to be sus- 
tained by a single mind. 

" Goodness gracious !" aunt Pullet exclaimed, after preluding 
by an inarticulate scream ; " keep her at the door, Sally ! Don't 
brin g h er off the oilcloth, whatever you do." 

" Why, she's tumbled into some nasty mud," said Mrs. Tul- 



TILE MILL ON THJB FLOSS. 98 

liver, going up to Lucy to examine into the amount of damage 
to clothes for which she felt herself responsible to her sister 
Deane. 

" K you please, 'um, it was Miss Maggie as pushed her in," 
said Sally ; ^^ Master Tom's been and said so, and they must 
ha' been to the pond, for it's only there they could ha' got into 
such dirt." 

"There it is, Bessy; it's what I've been telling you," said 
Mrs. Pullet, in a tone of prophetic sadness ; " it's your children 
— ^there's no knowing what they'll come to." 

Mrs. Tulliver was mute, feeling herself a truly wretched 
mother. As usual, the thought pressed upon her that people 
would think that she had done something wicked to deserve 
her maternal troubles, while Mrs. Pullet began to give elabo- 
rate directions to Sally how to guard the premises irom serious 
injury in the course of removing the dirt. Meantime tea was 
to be brought in by the cook, and the two naughty children 
were to have theirs in an ignominious manner in the kitchen. 
Mrs. Tulliver went out to speak to these naughty children, sup- 
posing them to be close at hand ; but it was not until after 
some search that she found Tom Jeaning with rather a harden- 
ed, careless air against the white paUng of the poultry-yard, 
and Jowering his piece of string on the other side as a means 
of exasperating the turkey-cock. 

*'Tom, you naughty boy, where is your sister?" said Mrs. 
Tulliver, in a distressed voice. 

" I don't know," said Tom ; his eagerness for justice on Mag- 
gie had diminished since he had seen clearly that it could 
hardly be brought about without the injustice of some blame 
on his own conduct. 

" Why, where did you leave her ?" said his mother, look- 
ing round. 

" Sitting under the tree against the pond," said Tom, appar- 
ently indSerent to every thing but the string and the tur- 
key-cock. 

" Then go and fetch her iu this minute, you naughty boy. 
And how could you thiiJc of going to the pond, and taking 
your sister where there was dm;? You know she'll do mis- 
chief, if there's mischief to be done." 

It was Mrs. TuUiver's way, if she blamed Tom, to refer his 
misdemeanor, somehow or otiier, to Maggie. 

The idea of Ma^e sitting alone by the pond roused an ha- 
bitual fear in Mrs.Tulliver's mind, and she mounted the horse- 
block to satisfy herself by a sight of that fatal child, while Tom 
walked — ^not very quickly— on his way toward her. 

" They're such children for the water, mine are," she said 



94 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

aloud, without reflecting that there was no one to hear her ; 
^^ they'll be brought in dead and drownded some day. I wish 
that river was far enough." 

But when she not only failed to discern Maggie, but pres- 
ently saw Tom returning from the pool alone, this hovering 
fear entered and took complete possession of her, and she hur- 
ried to meet hixh. 

"Maggie's nowhere about the pond, mother," said Tom; 
" she's gone away." 

You may conceive the terrified search for Maggie, and the 
difficulty of convincing her mother that she was not in the 
pond. Mrs. Pullet observed that the child might come to a 
worse end if she lived — ^there was no knowing ; and Mr. Pul- 
let, confused and overwhelmed by this revolutionary aspect of 
things — the tea deferred, and the poultry alarmed by the unu- 
sual running to and fro — ^took up his spud as an instrument of 
search, and reached down a key to unlock the goose-pen, as a 
likely place for Maggie to lie concealed in. 

Tom, after a wMe, started the idea that Maggie was gone 
home (without thinking it necessary to state that it was what 
he should have done himself under the circumstances), and the 
suggestion was seized as a comfort by his mother. 

" Sister, for goodness' sake, let 'em puli the horse in the car- 
riage and take me home — we shall perhaps find her on the 
road. Lucy can't walk in her dirty clothes," she said, looking 
at that innocent victim, who was wrapped up in a shawl, and 
sitting with naked feet on the sofa. 

Aunt Pullet was quite willing to take the shortest means of 
restoring her premises to order and quiet, and it was not long 
before Mrs. Tulliver was in the chaise, looking anxiously at the 
most distant point before her. What the father would say if 
Maggie was lost, was a question that predominated over every 
other. 



CHAPTER XI. 

MAGGIE TRIES TO RUN AWAY FROM HER SHADOW. 

Maggie's intentions, as usual, were on a larger scale than 
Tom had imagined. The resolution that gathered in her mind, 
after Tom and Lucy had walked away, was not so simple as 
that of going home. No ; she would run away and go to the 
gipsies, and Tom should never see her any more. That was 
by no means a new idea to Maggie ; she had been so often 
^ told she was like a gipsy, and "half wild," that when she was 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 95 

miserable it seemed to her the only way of escaping opprobri- 
um, and being entirely in harmony with circumstances would 
be to live in a little brown tent on the commons : the gipsies, 
she considered, would gladly receive her, and pay her much 
respect on account of her superior knowledge. She had once 
mentioned her views on this point to Tom, and suggested that 
he should stain his face brown, and they should run away to- 
gether ; but Tom rejected the scheme with contempt, observ- 
ing that gipsies were thieves, and hardly got any thmg to eat, 
and had nothing to drive but a donkey. To-day, however, 
Maggie thought her misery had reached a point at which gip- 
sydom was her only refuge, and she rose from her seat on the 
roots of the tree with the sense that this was a great crisis in 
her life ; she would run straight away till she came to Dunlow ^ 
Common, where there would certainly be gipsies, and cruel 
Tom, and the rest of her relations who found fault with her, 
should never see her any more. She thought of her father as 
she ran along, but she reconciled herself to the idea of parting 
with him by determining that she would secretly sencl him a 
letter by a small gipsy, who would run away without telling 
where she was, and just let him know that she was well and 
happy, and always loved him very much. 

Msggie soon got out of breath with running, but by the 
time Tom got to the pond again she was at the distance of 
three long fields, and was on the edge of the lane leading to 
the high road. She stopped to pant a little, reflecting that run- 
ning away was not a pleasant thing until one had got quite to 
the conmion where the gipsies were, but her i*esolution had • 
not abated: she presently passed through the gate into the 
lane, not knowing where it would lead her, for it was not this 
way that they came from Dorlcote Mill to Garum Firs, and she 
felt all the safer for that, because there was no chance of her 
being overtaken. But she was soon aware, not without trem- 
bling, that there were two men coming along the lane in front 
of her: she had not thought of meeting strangers — she had 
been too much occupied with the idea of her friends coming . 
after her. The formidable strangers were two shabby-looking 
men with flushed faces, one of them carrying a bundle on a 
stick over his shoulder ; but, to her surprise, while she was 
dreadmg their disapprobation as a runaway, the man with the 
bundle stopped, and in a half-whining, half-coaxing tone asked 
her if she nad a copper to give a poor man. Maggie had a 
sixpence in her pocket — ^her Uncle Glegg's present — which she 
immediately drew out and gave this poor man with a polite 
smile, hoping he would feel very kindly toward her as a gen- 
erous person. " That's the only money I've got," she said. 



96 THE MILL ON TUB FLOSS. 

apologetically. ^^ Thank yon, little miss," said the man, in a 
less respectful and grateful tone than Maggie anticipated, and 
she even observed that he smiled and winked at his compan- 
ion. She walked on hurriedly, but was aware that the two 
men were standing still, probably to look after her, and she 
presently heard them laughing loudly. Suddenly it occur- 
red to her that they might think she was an idiot : Tom had 
said that her cropped hair made her look like an idiot, and 
it was too painful an idea to be readily forgotten. Besides, 
she had no sleeves on — only a cape and bonnet. It was clear 
that she was not likely to make a favorable impression on pas- 
sengers, and she thought she would turn into the fields again, 
but not on the same side of the lane as before, lest (hey should 
still be uncle Pullet's fields. She turned through the first gate 
that was not locked, and felt a delightful sense of privacy in 
creeping along by hedgerows after her recent humiliating en- 
counter. She was used to wandering about the fields by her- 
self, and was less timid there than on the high road, oome- 
times she had to climb over high gates, but that was a small 
evil ; she was getting out of reach very fast, and she should 
probably soon come within sight of Dunlow Conamon, or at 
least some other common, for she had heard her father say that 
you couldn't go very far without coming to a common. She 
hoped so, for she was getting rather tired and hungry^ and un- 
til she reached the gipsies there was no definite prospect of 
bread and butter. It was still broad daylight, for aunt Pullet, 
retaining the early habits of the Dobson fanaily, took tea at 
half past four by the sun, and at five by the kitchen clock ; so, 
though it was nearly an hour since Maggie started, there was 
no gathering gloom on the fields to remind her that the night 
would come. Still, it seemed to her that she had been walk- 
ing a very great distance indeed, and it was really surprising 
that the common did not come within sight. Hitherto- she 
had been in the rich parish of Garum, where there was a great 
deal of pasture-land, and she had only seen one laborer at a dis- 
tance. That was fortunate in some respects, as laborers might 
be too ignorant to understand the propriety of her wanting to 
go to Dunlow Common ; yet it would have been better if she 
could have met with some one who would tell her the way 
without wanting to know any thing about her private business. 
At last, however, the green fields came to an end, and Maggie 
found herself looking through the bars of a gate into a lane 
with a wide margin of grass on each side of it. She had nev- 
er seen such a wide lane before, and, without her knowing why, 
it gave her the impression that the common could not oe rar 
off; perhaps it was because she saw a donkey with a log to his 



THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 97 

foot feeding on the grassy margin, for she had seen a donkey 
with that pitiable encumbrance on Dmilow Common when she 
had been across it in her father's gig. She crept through the 
bars c^ the gate and walked on with new spirit, though not 
without haunting images of Apollyon, and a highwayman with 
a pistol, and a blinking dwarf in yellow, with a mouth from 
ear to ear, and other miscellaneous dangers ; for poor little 
Mag^e had at once the timidity of an active imagination, and 
the Ssmng that comes from overmastering impulse. She had 
rushed into the adventure of seeking her unknown kindred, the 
gipsies ; and now she was in this strange lane, she hardly dared 
look on one side of her, lest she should see the diabolicsJ black- 
smith in his leathern apron grinning at her with arms akimbo. 
It was not without a leaping of the heart that she caught sight 
of a small pair of bare legs sticking up, feet uppermost, by the 
side of a hillock ; they seemed something hideously preternat- 
ural — a diabolical kind of fungus ; for she was too much agi- 
tated at the first glance to see the ragged clothes, and the dark, 
shaggy head attached to them. It was a boy asleep ; andMag- 

fie trotted sJong ^ter and more lightly, lest she should wake 
jm : it did not occur to her that he was one of her friends 
the ^psies, who in all probability would have very genial man- 
ners. But the fact was so, for at the next bend m the lane 
Maggie actuary saw the little semicircular black tent, with the 
blue smoke rising before it, which was to be her refuge from 
all the blighting obloquy that had pursued her in civilized life. 
She even saw a tall remale figure^ by the column of smoke — 
doubtless the gipsy-mother, who provided the tea and other 
groceries ; it was astonishing to herself that she did not feel 
more delighted. But it was startling to find the gipsies in a 
lane, after all, and not on a common ; mdeed, it was rather dis- 
appointing ; for a mysterious illimitable common, where there 
were sand-pits to hide in, and one was out of every body's 
reach, had always made part of Maggie's pictm'e of gipsy ifie. 
She went on, however, and thought with some comfort that 
gipsies most likely knew nothing about idiots, so there was no 
danger of their falling into the mistake of setting her down 
at the first glance as an idiot. It was plain she had attract- 
ed attention ; for the tall figure, who proved to be a young 
woman with a baby on her arm, walked slowly to meet her. 
Maggie looked up in the new face rather tremblingly as it ap- 
proached, and was reassured by the thought that her aunt 
Pallet and the rest were right when they called her a gipsy, 
for this face, with the bright dark eyes and the long hair, was 
really something like what she used to see in the glass before 
flhe cat her hair off. 

E 



98 THB HILL ON THE FLOSS. 

" My little lady, where are yon going to ?" the gipsy said, in 
a tone of coaxing deference. 

It was delighted, and jnst what Maggie expected : the gip- 
sies saw at once that she was a little kdy, and were prepared 
to treat her accordingly. 

^^ Not any ^rther,'^ said Maggie, feeling as if she were say- 
ing what she had rehearsed in a dream. ^^Fm come to stay 
with y(yu^ please." 

"That's pritty ; come, then. Why, what a nice little lady 
you are, to be sure,*" said the gipsy, taking her by the handL 
Maggie thought her very agreeaole, but wished she had not 
been so dirty. 

There was quite a group round the fire when they reached 
it. An old gipsy-woman was seated on the ^onnd nursing 
her knees, and occasionally poking a skewer mto the round 
kettle that sent forth an odorous steam: two small shodk- 
headed children were lying prone and resting on their elbows 
something like small spmnxes ; and a placid donkey was bend- 
ing his head over a taU ^1, who, lying on her back, was scratch- 
ing his nose and indulgmg him with a bite of excellent stolen 
hay. The slanting sunlight fell kindly upon them, and the 
scene was very pretty and comfortable, Maggie thought, only 
she hoped they would soon set out the tea-cups. Every thing 
would be quite charming when she had taught the gipsies to 
use a washing-basin, and to feel an uiterest in books. It was 
a little confusing, though, that the young woman began to 
speak to the old one a language which Maggie did not under- 
stand, while the tall girl, who was feeding the donkey, sat up 
and stared at her wimput offering any salutation. At last the 
old woman said, 

" What, my pretty lady, are you come to stay with us ? Sit 
ye down, and tell us where you come from." 

It was just like a story : Maggie liked to be called pretty 
lady and treated in this way. She sat down and said, 

"I'm come from home because I'm unhappy, and I mean to 
be a gipsy. I'll live with you, if you like, and I can teadi you 
a great many things." 

^ " Such a clever little lady," said the woman with the baby, 
sitting do^^ by Maggie, and allowing baby to crawl ; *' and 
such a pretty bonnet and frock," she added, taking off Mag- 
gie's bonnet and looking at it, while she made an observation 
to the old woman in the unknown language. The tall girl 
snatched the bonnet and put it on her own head hind-foremost 
with a grin; but Maggie was determined not to show any 
weakness on this subject, as if she were susceptible about her 
bonnet. 



TBCB uhiL on thb floss. 99 

** I don't want to wear a bonnet," she said ; " Fd rather wear 
a red handkerchief like yonrs" (looking at her friend by her 
side) ; "my hair was quite long till yesterday, when I cnt it 
off; but I dare say it will grow again very soon," she added 
apologetically, thinking it probable the gipsies had a strong 
prejudice in favor of long nair. And Abiggie had forgotten 
even her hunger at that moment in the desire to conciliate 
gipsy opinion. 

" Oh, what a nice little lady ! — ^and rich, Pm sure," said the 
old woman. "Didn't you live in a beautiful house at home ?" 

" Yes, my home is pretty, and I'm very fond of tiie river, 
where we go fishing; but I'm often very unhappy. I should 
have liked to bring my books with me, but I came away in a 
hurry, you know. But I can tell you almost every thing there 
is in my books, Fve read them so many times — and that will 
amuse you. And I can tell you something about Geography 
too-— that's about the world we live in — very useM and inter- 
esting. Did you ever hear about Columbus ?" 

Maggie's eyes had begun to sparkle and her cheeks to flush 
-^she was really beginning to instruct the gipsies, and gain- 
ing great influence over them. The gipsies themselves were 
not without amazsement at this talk, though their attention was 
divided by the contents of Maggie's pocket, which the friend 
at her right hand had by this time emptied without attracting 
her notice. 

" Is that where you live, my littie lady ?" said the old worn* 
an, at the mention of Columbus. 

" Oh no I" said Maggie, with some pity ; " Columbus was a 
very wonderful man, who found out half the world, and they 
put chains on him, and treated him very badly, you know — 
It's in my Catechion of Geography — ^but perhaps it's rather 
too long to tell before tea. . . : IwainJt my tea boP 

The last words burst from Maggie, in spite of herself with a 
sudden drop from patronizing uistruction to simple peevishness. 

"Why, she's hungry, poor littie lady," said tne younger 
woman. " Give her some o' the cold victual. You've been 
walkii^ a good way, Fll be bound, my dear. Where's your 
home?" 

*'It's Dorlcote Mill — ^a good way ofl^" said Mag^e. "My 
&ther is Mr. Tulliver ; but we mustn't let him know where 1 
am, else he'll fetch me home again. Where does tlie queen of 
the g^ies live?" 

"What! do you want to go to her, my littie lady?" said 
the younger woman. The tall girl meanwhile was constantiy 
starmg at Maggie and grioning. Her manners were certainly 
not agreeable. 



"^ 
y 



100 THS imX OK THE FL0B8. 

" No,** said Maggie ; " Fm only thinking that if she isn't a 
very good queen you might be glad when she died, and you 
could dioose anomer. If I was a queen, I'd be a very good 
queen, and kind to every body." 

"Here's a bit o* nice victual, then," said the old woman, 
handing to Maggie a lump of dry bread, which she had taken 
from a Dag of scraps, and a piece of cold bacon. 

" Thank you," said Maggie, looking at the food without tak- 
ing it ; " but will you give me some bread and butter and tea 
instead ? I don't like bacon." 

« We've got no tea nor butter," said the old woman with 
something l&e a scowl, as if she were getting tired of coaxing. 

" Oh, a little bread and treacle would do,'' said Maggie. 

" We hadn't got no treacle," said the old woman, crossly, 
whereupon there followed a sharp dialogue between the two 
women in their unknown tongue, and one of the small sphinxes 
snatched at the bread and bacon and began to eat it. At this 
moment the tall girl, who had gone a few yards oS, came back 
and said something which produced a strong effect. The old 
woman, seeming to forget Maggie's hunger, poked the skewer 
into the pot with new vigor, and the younger crept under the 
tent, and reached out some platters and spoons. Maggie trem- 
bled a little, and was afraid the tears would come into her 
eyes. Meanwhile the tall girl gave a shrill cry, and presently 
came running up the boy, whom Maggie had passed as he was 
sleeping — a rough urchin about the age of Tom. He stared at 
Maggie, and there ensued much incomprehensible chattering. 
She Mt very lonely, and was quite sure she should begin to 
cry before long : the gipsies didn't seem to mind her at aU, 
and she felt quite weak among them. But the springing tears 
were checked by a new terror, when two men came up, whose 
approach had been the cause of the sudden excitement. The 
elder of the two carried a bag, which he flung down, address- 
ing the women in a loud and scolding tone, which they answer- 
ed by a shower of treble sauciness, while a black cur ran bark- 
ing up to Maggie, and threw her into a tremor that only found 
a new cause in the curses with which the younger man called 
the dog off, and gave him a rap with a great stick he held in 
his hand. 

Maggie felt that it was impossible she should ever be queen 
of these people, or ever communicate to them amusing and use- 
ful knowledge. 

Both the men now seemed to be inquiring about Maggie, 
for they looked at her, and the tone of the conversation oe- 
came of that pacific kind which implies curiosity on one side 
and the power of satisfying it on the otJier. At last the young- 
er woman said, in her previous deferential coaxing tone. 



THE MILL ON THE FLCNS8. 101 

"This nice little lady's come to live with us; aren't you 
glad?" 

" Ay, very glad," said the younger, who was looking at Mag- 
gie's »lver thimble and other small matters that had beentaS- 
en from her pocket. He returned them all except the thimble 
to the younger woman, with some observation, and she unm^ 
diately restored them to Maggie's pocket, while the men seat- 
ed themselves, and began to attack the contents of the kettle 
—a stew of meat and potatoes — ^which had been taken off tie 
fire and turned out into a yellow platter. 

Maggie began to think that Tom must be right about the 
gipsies — ^they must certainly be thieves, unless the man meant 
to return her thimble by-and-by. She would willingly have 
given it to him, for she was not at all attached to her thimble ; 
but the idea that she was among thieves prevented her from 
feeling any comfort in the revival of deference and attention 
toward her — aU thieves except Robin Hood were wicked peo- 
ple. The woman saw she was frightened. 

" We've got nothing nice for a lady to eat," said the old 
woman, in her coaxing tone. ^' And she's so hungry, sweet 
Utde lady." 

" Here, my dear, try if you can eat a bit o' this," said the 
youiiger woman, handing some of the stew on a brown dish 
with an iron spoon to Maggie, who, remembering that tlie old 
woman had seemed angry with her for not liking the bread 
and bacon, dared not refuse the stew, though fear had chased 
away her appetite. If her father would but come by in the 
rig and take her up ! Or even if Jack the Giant-killer, or Mr. 
Greatheart, or St. George who slew the dragon on the hal^ 
pennies, would happen to pass that way ! But Maggie thought 
with a sinking heart that these heroes were never seen in the 
neighborhood of St. Ogg's — ^nothing very wonderful ever came 
there. 

Maggie Tulliver, you perceive, was by no means that well- 
trained, well-informed young person that a small female of 
eight or nine necessarily is in these days : she had only been 
to school a year at St. Ogg's, and had so few books that she 
sometimes read the dictionary, so that ui traveling over her 
small mind you would have found the most imexpected igno- 
rance as well as unexpected knowledge. She could have in- 
formed you that there was such a word as "polygamy," and 
being also acquainted with "polysyllable," she had deduced 
the conclusion that "poly" meant "many;" but she had had 
no idea that gipsies were not well supplied with groceries, and 
her thoughts generally were the oddest mixture of dear-eyed 
acumen and bund dreams. 



102 THB MILL OK THB FL06S. 

Her ideas about the gipsies had tindergone a rapid modilB- 
cation in the last five minutes. From having considered them 
very respectful companions, amenable to instruction, she had 
begun to think diat they meant perhaps to kill her as soon as 
it was dark, and cut up her body for gradual cooking: the 
suspicion crossed her that the fierce-eyed oM man was m fisust 
the dev^ who might drop that transparent disguise at any 
moment, and turn either into the grinning blacksmith or else 
a fiery-eyed monster with dragon's wings. It was no use try- 
ing to eat the stew, and yet the thing she most dreaded was 
to offend the gipsies by betraying her extremely un&vorable 

Z'oion of them, and she wondered with a keenness of interest 
t no theologian could have exceeded, whether, if the devil 
were really present, he would know her thoughts. 

*' What ! you don't like the smell of it, my dear," said the 
young woman, observing that Maggie did not even take a 
spoonful of the stew. " Try a bit — come." 

" No, thank you," said Maggie, summoning all her force for 
a desperate effort, and trying to smile in a friendly .way. "I 
haven't time, I think — ^it seems getting darker. I think I must 
go home now, and come again anouier day, and then I can 
bring you a basket with some jam tarts and nice things." 

Maggie rose from her seat as she threw out this illusory 

Erospect, devoutly hoping that ApoUyon was gullible ; but her 
ope sank when tiie old gipsy-woman said, " Stop a bit, stop a 
bit, little lady ; we'll take you home, all safe, when we've done 
supper : you shall ride home, like a lady." 

Maggie sat down again, with little faith in this 'promise, 
though she presently saw the tall girl putting a bridle on the 
donkey, and throwing a couple of bags on his back. 

" Now, then, little missis,"^ said the younger man, rising, and 
leading the donkey forward, " tell us where you live — ^what's 
the name o' the place ?" 

"Dorlcote Mill is my home," said Maggie, eagerly. **My 
father is Mr.Tulliver — ^he lives there," 

" What I a big miU a little way this side o' St. Ogg^s ?" 

" Yes," said Maggie. « Is it fer off? I think I should like 
to walk there, if you please." 

" No, no, it'll be getting dark ; we must make haste. And 
the doiiey '11 carry you as nice as can be — ^you^U see." 

He lifted^ Maggie as he spoke, and set her on the donkey. 
She felt relieved that it was not the old man who seemed to 
be going with her, but she had only a trembling hope that she 
was reaUy going home. 

^ " Here's your pretty bonnet," said the younger woman, put- 
ting that rec^tly despised but now welcome article of cos- 



THB MILL ON THB FLO80. 103 

tame on Maggie's head ; '^ and you'll say we've been very good 
to yon, won't you? and what a nice uttle lady we said you 
was." 

*' Oh yes, thank you," said Maggie. " I'm very much obliged 
to you. But I wisn you'd go with me too." She thought any 
thing was better than gomg with one of the dreadful men 
alone : it would be more cheerful to be murdered by a larger 
party. 

" Ah ! you're fondest o' me, aren't you ?" said the woman. 
" But I can't go ; you'll go too fast for me." 

It now appeared that the man also was to be seated on the 
donkey, holding Maggie before him, and she was as incapable 
of remonstrating against this arrangement as the donkey him- 
self though no nightmare had ever seemed to her more horri- 
ble. When the woman had patted her on the back, and said 
"6ood-by," the donkey, at a* strong hint from the man's stick, 
set off at a rapid walk along the lane toward the point Maggie 
had come from an hour ago, while the tall girl and the rough 
urchin, also furnished with sticks, obligingly escorted them for 
the first hundred yards, with much screammg and thwacking. 

Not Leonore, in that preternatural midnight excursion wim 
her phantom lover, was more terrified than poor Maggie in this 
entirely natural ride on a short-paced donkey, with a gipsy be- 
hind her, who considered that ne was earning half a crown. 
The red light of the setting sun seemed to have a portentous 
meaning, with which the alarming bray of the second donkey 
with the log on its foot must surely have some connection. 
Two low thatched cottages — ^the only houses they passed in 
this lane — seemed to add to its dreariness : they had no win- 
dows to speak of, and the doors were closed :. it was probable 
that they were inhabited by witches, and it was a relief to find 
that the donkey did not stop there. 

At last — Oh, sight of joy I — this lane, the lon^st in the 
world, was coming to an end, was opening on a broad high 
road, where there was actually a coach passing ! And there 
was a finger-post at tiie comer : she had surely seen that fin- 
ger-post before — "To St. Og^s, 2 miles." The gipsy really 
meant to take her home, then : he was probably a good man, 
afler all, and might have been rather hurt at the thought that 
she didn't like coming with him alone. This idea became 
stronger as she felt more and more certain that she knew the 
road quite well, and she was considering how she might open 
a conversation with the injured gipsy, and not only gratify his 
feelings, but efE^ce the impression of her cowardice, when, as 
they^ reached a cross-road, Maggie caught sight of some one 
coming on a white-faced horse. 



104 TELE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

" Oh, Stop, Stop I" she cried out. " There's my father ! Oh, 
father, father I" 

The sadden joy was aknost painfiil, and before her father 
reached her she was sobbing. Great was Mr. Tulliver's won- 
der, for he had made a round from Basset, and had not yet 
been home. 

" Why, what's the meaning o' this ?" he said, checking his 
horse, wlule Maggie slipped from the donkey and ran to her 
father's stirrup. 

"The httle miss lost herself, I reckon," said the gipsy. 
*' She'd come to our tent at the far end o' Dunlow Lane, and I 
was bringing her where she said her home was. It's a good 
way to come arter being on the tramp all day." 

" Oh yes, father, he's been very good to bring me home," 
said Maggie. " A very kind, good man !" 

" Here, then, my man," said Mr. Tulliver, taking out five 
shillings. " It's the best day's work you ever did. I couldn't, 
afford to lose the little wench ; here, lift her up before me." 

" Why, Maggie, how's this — Show's this ?" he said, as they 
rode along, while she laid her head against her father and 
sobbed. " How came you to be rambling about and lose your- 
self?" 

" Oh, father," sobbed Maggie, " I ran away because I was 
so unhappy — ^Tom was so angry with me. I couldn't bear it." 

" Pooh ! pooh !" said Mr. TuUiver, soothingly, " you mustn't 
think o' running away from father. What 'ud father do with- 
out his httle wench ?" 

" Oh no, I never will again, father — ^never." 

Mr. Tulliver spoke his mind very strongly when he reached 
home that evening, and the effect was seen in the remarkable 
fact that Maggie never heard one reproach from her mother, 
or one taunt from Tom, about this foolish business of her run- 
ning away to the gipsies. Maggie was rather awe-stricken by 
this unusual treatment, and sometimes thought that her con- 
duct had been too wicked to be alluded to. 



'^ CHAPTER Xn. 

ME. AND MRS. GLEGG AT HOME. 

In order to see Mr. and Mrs. Glegg at home, we must enter 
the town of St. Ogg's — ^that venerable town with the red fluted 
roofs and the broad warehouse gables, where the black ships 
unlade themselves of their burdens from the far north, and 
carry away, in exchange, the precious inland products, the 
well-crushed cheese and the soft fleeces, which my refined 



TOR MILL OK TBB VLOSS. 105 

readers have doubtless become acquainted with through the 
medium of the best classic pastorals. 

It is one of those old, old towns, which in;press one as a 
continuation and outgrowth of nature, as much as the nests of 
the bower-birds or the winding galleries of the white ants — ^a 
town which carries the traces of its long growth and history- 
like a millennial tree, and has sprung up and developed in the 
same spot between the river and uie low hill from the time 
when tlie Roman legions turned their backs on it from the 
camp on the hill-side, and the long-haired searkings came up 
the river and looked with fierce, eager eyes at the fetness of 
the land. It is a town " familiar with forgotten years." The 
shadow of the Saxon hero-king still walks there fitfully, re- 
viewing the scenes of his youth and love-time, and is met by 
the gloomier shadow of the dreadiul heathen Dane, who was 
stabbed in the midst of his warriors by the sword of an invis- 
ible avenger, and who rises on autumn evenings like a white 
mist from his tumulus on the lull, and hovers in the court of 
the old haU by the river-side — ^the spot where he was thus 
miraculously slain in the days before the old haU was built. 
It was the Normans who began to build that fibae old hall, 
which is like the town, telling of thoughts and hands of wide- 
ly-sundered generations ; but it is all so old that we look with 
loving pardon at its inconsistencies, and are well content that 
they who built the stone oriel, and they who built the Gothic 
fsf^sde and towers of finest small brickwork with the trefoil 
ornament, and the windows and battlements defined with stone, 
did not sacrilegiously pull down the ancient half-timbered body 
with its oak-roofed banqueting-hall. 

But older even than this old hall is perhaps the bit of wall 
now built into the belfry of the parish church, and ^id to be 
a remnant of the original chapel dedicated to St. V/gg, the pa- 
tron saint of this ancient town, of whose history I pii.asess sev- 
eral manuscript versions. I incline to the briefes^i-iince, if it 
should not be wholly true, it is at least likely to cWtain the 
least falsehood. " Ogg, the son of Beorl," says my private ha- 
giographer, " was a boatman, who gained a scanty living by 
ferrying passengers across the River Floss. And it came to 
pap^3 one evening, when the winds were high, that there sat 
moaning by the brink of the river a woman with a child in her 
arms ; and she was clad in rags, and had a worn and withered 
look, and she craved to be rowed across the river. And the 
men thereabout questioned her, and said, 'Wherefore dost thou 
desire to cross the river ? Tarry till the morning, and take 
shelter here for the night ; so shalt thou be wise, an.d not fool- 
ish.' Still she went on to mourn and crave. But Ogg, the 

E2 



100 THB MILL OK THB FL06S. 



Bon of Beorl) came up and said, ^I w ffl ferrjr^ thrr lypin \ 
enough that thy heart needs it.' Arid He I8ffied her aoi 



IB 

across. 
And It csune to pass, when she stepped ashore, that her rags 
were turned into robes of flowing white, and her face became 
bright with exceeding beauty, and there was a glory around 
it, so that she shed a light on the water like the moon in its 
brightness. And she said, ^ Ogg, the son of Beorl, thoa art 
blessed in that thou jidat. iA<>>t <T"WWtinn and ff fMii^ftMwMfcjlihe 
h^&fC^B'lieud; blXC wast smitten with pity, and die 

aigvisthg^safineT'^lffi r r 'fl r om liyncnibi 'r ti "t ^^t 5so 



rj^g^ ;Tftg;^ffia(^'^lffi( I 'gom liyncnibi 'r ti t ^'t loso steps into liiy 
Do^S^attibe^ peril from the storm ; and whenever it puts 

forth to the rescue, it shall save the fives both of men and 
beasts.' And when the floods came, many were saved by rea- 
son of that blessing on the boat. But wnen Ogg, the son of 
Beorl, died, behold, in the parting of his soul, the boat loosed 
itself from its moorings, and was floated with the ebbing tide 
in great swifrness to me ocean, and was seen no more, x et it 
was witnessed in the floods of after-time that at the commg 
on of even, Ogg, the son of Beorl, was always seen with his 
boat upon the wide-spreading waters, and the Blessed Vir^ 
sat in the prow, shedding a light around as of the moon in its 
brightness, so that the rowers in the gathering darkness took 
heart and pulled anew." 

This legend, one sees, reflects from a far-off time the visita- 
tion of the floods, which, even when they left human life un- 
touched, were widely fatal to the helpless cattle, and swept as 
sudden death over all smaller living things. But the town 
knew worse troubles even than the floods — ^troubles of the 
civU wars, when it was a continual fighting-place, where first 
Puritans thanked God for the blood of the Loyalists, and then 
Loyalists thanked God for the blood of the Puritans. Many 
honest citizens lost all their possessions for conscience' sake in 
those times, and went forth beggared from their native town. 
Doubtless there are many houses standing now on which those 
honest citizens turned their backs in sorrow: quaint-gabled 
houses looking on the river, janmied between newer ware- 
houses, and penetrated by surprising passages, which turn and 
turn at sharp angles till they lead you out on a muddy strand 
overflowed continually by the rushing tide. Every where the 
brick houses have a mellow look, and in Mrs. Glegg's day there 
was no incongruous new-fashioned smartness, no plate-glass in 
shop windows, no fresh stucco-facing or other fallacious at- 
tempts to make fine old red St. Ogg's wear the air of a town 
that sprang up yesterday. The shop windows were small and 
unpretending ; for the farmers' wives and daughters who came 
to do their shopping on market-days were not to be withdrawn 



THB MILL ON THB FL088. 107 

fi-om their regular, well-known shops, and the tradesmen had 
no wares intended for customers who would go on their way 
and be seen no more. Ah I even Mrs. Glegg's day seems fer 
back in the past now, separated by changes that widen the 
years. War and the rumor of war had then died out from 
the minds of men, and if they were ever thought of by the 
&rmer8 in drab great-coats, who shook the grain out of their 
Bample-bags and buzzed oyer it in the frill market-place, it was 
as a state of things that belonged to a past golden age, when 
prices were high. Surely the time was ^one forever when the 
broad river could bring up unwelcome snips : Russia was only 
the place where the linseed came from — ^the more the better — 
makmg grist for the ^eat vertical mill-stones with their scythe- 
like arms, roaring, aim mnding, and carefrilly sweeping as if an 
informing soul was in Siem. The Catholics, bad harvests, and 
the mysterious fluctuation of trade, were the three evils man- 
kind had to fear : even the floods had not been great of late 
years. The mind of St. Ogg's did not look extensively before 
or after. It inherited a long past without thinking of it, and 
had no eyes for the spirits that walked the streets. Since the 
centuries when St. Ogg with his boat and the Virgin Mother 
at the prow had been seen on the wide water, so many memo- 
ries had been left behind, and had gradually vanished like the 

receding hiU-tops ! ^"^ tihfi p^^°^^t ^^^'^^^ Mke the level 
pi»;^ ^^.Pft ^.^ i^c^ ^^l^^atru^j ^^^A earthquakes, 

(liiiiliMi|j terffUBJfflfjjyf^l V aft ygfltorday; aiwI-^w-gfaHit forces 
that used to^KaKeme eartli are forever laid to sleep. The 
days were gone when people could be greatly wrought upon 
by their &ith, still less change it : the Catholics were fonmda- 
, ble because they would lay hold of government and property, 
! and bum men alive ; not because any sane and honest parish^ 
loner of St. Ogg's could be brought to believe in the Pope. 
One aged person remembered how a rude multitude had been 
swayed when John Wesley preached in the cattle-market ; but 
for a long while it had not been expected of preachers that 
they should shake the souls of men. An occasional burst of 
fervor in Dissenting pulpits on the subject of infant baptism 
was the only symptom of a zeal unsuited to sober times when 
men had done with change. Protestantism sat at ease, un- 
mindfiil of schisms, careless of proselytism ; Dissent was an in- 
heritance along with a superior pew and a business connection; 
and Churchmanship only wondeted contemptuously at Dissent 
as a fooli£^ habit uiat clung greatly to famUies in the grocery 
and chandlering lines, though not incompatible with prosper- 
ous wholesale dealing. But with the Catholic Question had 
oome a lUght wind of controversy to break the cahn ; the el- 



108 THB MILL ON THS FL088. 

derly rector had become occasionally historical and argnment- 
ative, and Mr. Spray, the Independent minister, had begmi to 
preach political sermons, in which he distinguished with much 
subtlety between his fervent belief in the ri^ht of the Catholics 
to the mmchise and his fervent belief in their eternal perdition. 
But most of Mr. Spray's hearers were incapable of following 
his subtleties, and many old-fashioned Dissenters were mu(£ 
pained by his " siding with the Catholics," while others thought 
he had better let politics alone. Public spirit was not held in 
high esteem at St. Ogg's, and men who busied themselves with 
poKtical questions were regarded with some suspicion as dan- 
gerous characters : they were usually persons who had little 
or no business of their own to manage, or, if they had, were 
likely enough to become insolvent. 

Tliis was the general aspect of things at St. Ogg^s in Mrs. 
Glegg's day, and at that particular period in her fSEumly his- 
tOTY when she had had her quarrel with Mr. Tulliver. It was 
a time when ignorance was much more comfortable than at 
present, and was received with all the honors in very good so- 
ciety without being obliged to dress itself in an elaborate cos- 
tume of knowledge ; a time when cheap periodicals were not, 
and when country surgeons never thought of asking their fe- 
male patients if they were fond of reading, but simply took it 
for granted that they preferred gossip ; a time when ladies in 
rich silk gowns wore large pockets, in which they carried a 
mutton-bone to secure them against cramp. Mrs. Glegg car- 
ried such a bone, which she had mherited from her grandmoth- 
er with a brocaded gown that would stand up empty, like a 
suit of armor, and a silver-headed walking-stick ; for the Dod- 
son family had been respectable for many generations. 

Mrs. Glegg had both a front and a back parlor in her excel- 
lent house at St. Ogg's, so that she had two poi nts of view 
from which she could observe the weaknesses of her fellow-Be- 
ings, and re-enforce her thankfulness for her own exceptional 
strength of mind. From her front windows she could look 
down the Tofton Road, leading out of St. Ogg's, and note the 
growing tendency to " gadding about" in the wives of men 
not retired from business, together with a practice of wearing 
woven cotton stockings, which opened a dreary prospect for 
the coming generation; and from her back windows she could 
look down the pleasant garden and orchard which stretched to 
the river, and observe the folly of Mr. Glegg in spending his 
time among " them flowers and vegetables ;" for Mr. Gtegg, 
having retired from active business as a wool-stapler, for the 
purpose of enjoying himself through the rest of his life, had 
found this last occupation so much more severe than his bnsi- 



THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 100 

ness, that he had been driven into amateur hard labor as a dis- 
sipation, and habitually relaxed by doing the work of two or- 
dinary gardeners. The economizmg of a gardener's wages 
might perhaps have induced Mrs. Glegg to wink at this folly, 
if it were possible for a healthy female mind even to simulate 
respect for a husband^s hobby. But it is well known that this 
conjugal complacency belongs only to the weaker portion of 
the sex, who are scarcely alive to the responsibilities of a wife 
as a constituted check on her husband's pleasures, which are 
hardly ever of a rational or commendable Idnd. 

Mr. Glegg on his side, too, had a double source of mental 
occupation, which gave every promise of being inexhaustible. 
0^ the one hand, he surprised himself by his discoveries in 
natural history, fbding that his piece of garden-ground con- 
tained wonderful caterpillars, slugs, and insects, which, so far 
as he had heard, had never before attracted human observa- 
tion ; and he noticed remarkable coincidences between these 
zoological phenomena and the great events of that time — as, 
for example, that before the burning of York Minster there had 
been mysterious serpentine marks on the leaves of the rose- 
trees, together with an unusual prevalence of slugs, which he 
had been puzzled to know the meaning of, until it flashed upon 
him with this melancholy conflagration. (Mr. Glegg had an 
unusual amount of mental activity, which^ when disengaged 
from the'^obl business, naturally made itself a pathway in 
other directions.) And his second subject of meditation was 
the " contrairiness" of the female mind, as typically exhibited^ 
in Mrs. Glegg. That a creature made — in a genealogical sense 
— out of a man's rib, and in this particular case maintained in 
the highest respectability without, any trouble of her own, 
should be normally in a state of contradiction to the blandest/ 
propositions and even to the most accommodating concessionf 
was a mystery in the scheme of things to which he had ofte^ 
in vain sought a clew in the early chapters of Genesis. Mi 
Gle^g had chosen the eldest Miss Dodson as a handsome em- 
bodiment of female prudence and thrift, and being himself ot" 
a money-getting, money-keeping turn, had calculated on much 
conjugal harmony. But in that curious compound,'the fem-f 
inine character, it may easily happen that the flavor is unpleas- 1 
ant in spite of excellent ingredients, and a fine systematic stin-/ 
giness may be accompanied with a seasoning that quite spoils 
Its relish. Now good Mr. Glegg himself was stingy in tha 
most amiable manner : his neighbors called him " near," which* 
always means that the person in question is a lovable skinflint. 
If you expressed a preference for cheese-parings, Mr. Glegg 
would remember to save them for you, with a good-natured 



110 TEEB HILL OK THB FLOSS. 

delight in gratifying your palate, and he was given to pet all 
animals which reqmred no appreciable keep. There was no 
hnmbug or hypocrisy about Mr. Glegg : his eyes would have 
watered with true feeling over the sale of a widow's furniture, 
which a five-pound note from his side-pocket would have pre- 
vented ; but a donation of five pounds to a person ^'in a small 
way of life'' would have seemed to him a mad kind of lavish- 
ness rather than " charity," which had always presented itself 
to him as a contribution of small aids, not a neutralizing of 
misfortune. And Mr. Glegff was just as fond of saving other 
people's money as his own : ne would have ridden as far round 
to avoid a turnpike when his expenses were to be paid for him 
as when they were to come out of his own pocket, and was 
quite zealous ui trying to induce indifferent acquaintances to 
adopt a cheap substitute for blacking. This inalienable habit 
of saving, as an end in itse^, belong^ to the industrious men 
of busuiess of a former generation, who made their fortunes 
slowly, abnost as the tracking of the fox belongs to the har- 
rier — ^it constituted them a "race," which is nearly lost in 
these days of rapid money-getting, when lavishness comes close 
on the back of want. Id. old-fashioned times, an "independ- 
ence" was hardly ever made without a little miserliness as a 
condition, and you would have found that quality in every pro- 
vincial district, combined with characters as various as the 
fruits from which we can extract acid. The true Harpagons 
were always marked and exceptional characters ; not so the 
worthy tax-payers, who, having once pinched from real neces- 
sity, retained even in the midst of their comfortable retire- 
ment, with their wall-fruit and wine-bins, the habit of regard- 
ing life as an ingenious process of nibbling out one's livelmood 
without leaving any perceptible deficit, and who would have 
been as immediately prompted to give up a newly-taxed lux- 
ury when they had their clear five hundred a year as when 
they had only five hundred pounds of capital. Mr, Glegg was 
one of these men, found so impracticable by chancellors of the 
exchequer ; and knowing this, you will be the better able to 
understand why he had not swerved from the conviction that 
he had made an eligible marriage, in spite of the too pungent 
seasoning that nature had given to the eldest Miss Dodson's 
virtues. A man with an affectionate disposition, who finds a 
wife to concur with his fundamental idea of life, easily comes 
to persuade himself that no other woman would have suited 
him so well, and does a little daily snapping and quarreling 
without any sense of alienation. Mr. Glegg, being of a reflect- 
ive turn, and no longer occupied with wool, had much won- 
dering meditation on the peculiar constitution of the female 



THB MILL OS THB FLOflB. Ill 

mind as unfolded to him in his domestic life; and yet he 
thought Mrs. Qlegg's household ways a model for her sex : it 
Btradc him as a pitiable irregularity in other women if they 
^d not roll up their table-napkins with the same tightness and 
emphasis as Mrs. Glegg did, if their pastry had a less leathery 
consistence, and their damson cheese a less venerable hardness 
than hers; nay, even the peculiar combination of grocery and 
drug-like odors in Mrs. Glegg's private cupboard impressed 
him as the only right thing in the way of cupboard smells. I 
am not sure that he would not have longed for the quarreling 
again, ifit had ceased for an entire week; and it is certain that 
an acquiescent mild wife would have left his meditations com- 
paratively jejune and barren of mystery. 

Mr. Glegg^s unmistakable kind-heartedness was shown in 
this, that it pained j^im more to see his wife at variance with 
others— even with Dolly, the servant — ^than to be in a state of 
cavil with her himself; and the quarrel between her and Mr. 
Tnlliver vexed him so much that it quite nullified the pleasure 
he would otherwise have had in the state of his early cabbages, 
as he walked in his garden before breakfast the next morning. 
Still he went in to breakfast with some slight hope that, now 
Mrs. Glegg had '^ slept upon it,'' her anger might be subdued 
enough to give way to her usually strong sense of £miily de- 
corum. She had been used to boast that there had never been 
any of those deadly (juarrels among the Dodsons which had 
disgraced other famihes ; that no Dodson had ever been ^' cut 
off with a shilling," and no cousin of the Dodsons disowned; 
as, indeed, why diould they be ? for they had no cousins who 
had not money out at use, or some houses of their own, at the 
very least. 

There was one evening-cloud which had always disappeared 
from Mrs. Glegg's brow when she sat at the breakfast-table : 
it was her fuzzy front of curls ; for, as she occupied herself in 
household matters in the morning, it would have been a mere 
extravagance to put on any thing so superfluous to the making 
of leathery pastry as a fuzzy curled front. By half past ten 
decorum demanded the front ; tmtil then Mrs. Glegg could 
economize it, and society would never be any the wiser. But 
the absence of that cloud only left it more apparent that the 
cloud of severity remained ; and Mr. Glegg, perceiving this as 
he sat down to his milk-porridge, which it was his old frugal 
habit to stem his morning hunger with, prudently resolved to 
leave the first remark to Mrs. Glegg, lest, to so delicate an 
article as a lady's temper, the slightest touch should do mis- 
chief. People who seem to enjoy their ill-temper have a way 
of keeping it in fine condition by inflicting privations on them?- 



112 THB MILL OK THB FLOSS. 

Qielves. That was Mrs. Glegg's way : she made her tea weak- 
er than usual this morning, and declined butter. It was a hard 
case that a vigorous mood for quarreling, so highly capable of 
using any opportunity, should not meet with a single remark 
from Mr. Glegg on which to exercise itself. But by-and-by it 
appeared that his silence would answer the purpose, for he 
heard himself apostrophized at last in that tone peculiar to tiie 
wife of one's bosom. 

"Well, Mr. Glegg ! it's a poor return I get for making you 
the wife I've made you aJl these years. If this is the way I'm 
to be treated, Fd better ha' known it before my poor father 
died, and then, when Fd wanted a home, I should ha' gone 
elsewhere — as the choice was offered to me." 

Mr. Glegg paused from his porridge and looked np— not 
with any new amazement, but simply with that quiet, habitual 
wonder with which we regard constant mysteries. 

" Wliy, Mrs. G., what have I done now ?" 

"Done now, Mr. Glegg? done now? .... Fm sorry for 
you." 

Not seeing his way to any pertinent answer, Mr. Glegg re- 
verted to his porridge. 

"There's husband's in the world," continued Mrs. Glegg, 
after a pause, " as 'ud have known how to do something dn- 
ferent to siding with every body else against their own wives. 
Perhaps I'm wrong, and you can teach me better — ^but Fve 
allays heard as it's the husband's place to stand by the wife, 
instead o' rejoicing and triumphing when folks insult her." 

" Now, what call have you to say that ?" said Mr. Glegg, 
rather warmly, for, though a kind man, he was not as meek as 
Moses. " When did I rejoice or triumph over you ?" 

"There's ways o' doing things worse than speaking out plain, 
Mr. Glegg. I'd sooner you'd tell me to my face as you make 
light of me, than try to make out as every body's in the right 
but me, and come to your breakfast in the morning, as I've 
hardly slept an hour this night, and sulk at me as if I was the 
dirt under your feet." 

" Sulk at you ?" said Mr. Glegg, in a tone of angry face- 
tiousness. x ou're like a tipsy man as thinks every body's 
had too much but himself." 

" Don't lower yourself with using coarse language to me, 
Mr. Glegg I It makes you look very small, though you cant 
see yourself," said Mrs. Glegg, in a tone of energetic compas- 
sion. "A man in your place should set an example, and talk 
more sensible." 

"Yes; but will you listen to sense?" retorted Mr. Glegg, 
sharply. " The best sense I can talk to you is what I said last 



THE MILL ON THE FLOS0. 113 

nig^t — as you're i' the wronff to think o' calling in your money, 
when it's safe enough if yow d let it alone, all because of a bit 
of a tifl^ and I was in hopes you'd ha' altered your mind this 
morning. But if you'd like to call it in, don't do it in a hurry 
now, and breed more enmity in tho family, but wait till there's 
a pretty mortgage to be had without any trouble. You'd 
have to set the lawyer to work now to find an investment, and 
make no end o' expense." 

Mrs. Glegg felt there was really something in this, but she 
tossed her head and emitted a guttural interjection to indicate 
that her silence was only an armistice, not a peace. And, in 
fact, hostilities soon broke out again. 

" m thank you for my cup o' tea, now, Mrs. G.," said Mr. 
Glegg, seeing fiiat she did not proceed to give it him as usual, 
when he had finished his porridge. She lifted the teapot with 
a slight toss of the head, and said, 

" I'm glad to hear you'll thxmk me, Mr. Glegg. It's little 
thanks I get for what I do for folks i' this world, though 
there's never a woman o' yoivr side i' the family, Mr. Glegg, 
as is fit to stand up with me, and I'd say it if I was on my 
dying bed. Not but what I've allays conducted myself civil 
to your kin, and there isn't one of 'em can say the contrary, 
though my equils they aren't, and nobody sh^ make me say 
it." 

" You'd better leave finding fault wi' my kin till you've left 
off quarreling with your own, Mrs. G.," said Mr. Glegg, with 
angry sarcasm. " I'll trouble you for the milk-jug." 

** That's as felse a word as ever you spoke, Mr. Glegg," said 
the lady, pouring out the milk with unusual profuseness, as 
much as to say, if he wanted milk he should have it with a 
vengeance. " And you know it's false. I'm not the woman 
to quarrel with my own kin ; you may, for I've known you 
do It." 

" Why, what did you call it yesterday, then, leaving your 
sister's house in a tantrum ?" 

"I'd no quarrel wi' my sister, Mr. Glegg, and it's false to 
say it. Mr. Tulliver's none o' my blood, and it was him quar- 
reled with me, and drove me out o' the house. But perhaps 
you'd have had me stay, and be swore at, Mr. Glegg ; perhaps 
you was vexed not to hear more abuse and foul language 
poured out upo' your own wife. But, let me tell you, it's y(mr 
disgrace." 

" Did ever any body hear the like i' this parish ?" said Mr. 
Glegg, getting hot. " A woman, with every thing provided 
for Ecr, and aUowed to keep her own money the same as if it 
WM settled on her, and wiw a gig new stuffed and lined at no 



114 THE MILL OK THB FLOSS. 

end o' expense, and provided for when I die beyond any thing 
she could expect .... to go on i' this way, biting and snap- 
ping like a mad dog 1 It's beyond every thing as God A'mighty 
should ha' made women so." (These last words were nttered 
in a tone of sorrowful agitation. Mr. Glegs pushed his tea 
from him, and tapped the table with both his hands.) 

" Well, Mr. Qlegg I if those are your feelings, it's best they 
should be known," said Mrs. Glegg, taking offher napkin, and 
folding it in an excited manner. '*' But if you talk o' my being 
provided for beyond what I could expect, I beg leave to tell 
you as rd a ri^ht to expect a many things as I don't find. 
And as to my being like a mad dog, it s well if you're not cried 
shame on by the county for your treatment of me, for it's what 
I can't bear, and I won't bear — ^" 

Hero Mrs. Glegg's voice intimated that she was going to 
cry, and, breaking off from speech, she rang the bell violently. 

^^ Sally," she said, rising from her chair, and speaking in 
rather a choked voice, *' light a fire up stairs, and put the 
blinds down. Mr. Glegg, you'll please to order what you'd 
like for dinner. I shall have gruel." 

Mrs. Glegg walked across the room to the small bookcase, 
and took down Baxter's " Saints' Everlasting Rest," which she 
carried with her up stairs. It was the book she was accus- 
tomed to lay open beibre her on special occasions — on wet 
Sunday mornings, or when she heard of a death in the family, 
or when, as in this case, her quarrel with Mr. Glegg had be^ 
set an octave higher than usual. 

But Mrs. Glegg carried something else up stairs with her, 
which, together with the " Saints' Rest" and the gruel, jn&y 
have had some influence in gradually calming her feelings, and 
making it possible for her to endure existence on the ground 
floor shortly before tea-time. This was, partly, Mr. Glegg's 
suggestion that she would do well to let her five hundred lie 
still until a good investment turned up ; and, further, his par- 
enthetic hint at his handsome provision for her in case of his 
death. Mr. Gle^g, like all men of his stamp, was extremely 
reticent about his will ; and Mrs. Glegg, in her gloomier mo- 
ments, had forebodings that, like other husbands of whom she 
had heard, he might cherish the mean project of heightening 
her grief at his death by leaving her poorly off^ in which case 
she was firmly resolved that she would have scarcely any 
weeper on her bonnet, and would cry no more than if he had 
been a_secp.nd husband. But if he had really shown her any 
testamentary tenderness, it would be affecting to think of him, 
poor man, when he was gone ; and even his foolieii fuss about 
the flowers and garden-stuff, and his insistance on Uie subject 



THB HILL Olf THB FL0S8. 115 

of snails, would be tonchmg when it was once fairly at an end. 
To survive Mr. Glegg, and talk eologistically of him as a man 
who might have his weaknesses, but who had done the right 
thing by her, notwithstanding his numerous poor relations— 
to have sums of interest coming in more frequently, and se- 
crete it in various comers, baffling to the most ingenious of 
thieves (for, to Mrs. Glegg's mind, banks and strong-boxes 
would have nullified the pleasure of property-^-she might as 
well have taken her food m capsules) — ^finally, to be looked up 
to by her own family and the neighborhood, so as no woman 
can ever hope to be who has not the prasterite and present 
dignity comprised in being a "widow well left" — all this made 
anattering and conciliatory view of the friture ; so that when 
good Mr. Gleg^, restored to good-humor hj much hoeing, and 
moved by the sight of his wife's empty chair, with her knitting 
rolled up in the comer, went up ^ stairs to her, and observed 
that the bell had been tolling for poor Mr. Morton, Mrs. Glegg 
answered magnanimously, quite as if she had been an uninjured 
woman, "Ah I then, there'll be a good business for somebody 
to take to." 

Baxter had been open at least eight hours by this time, for 
it was nearly five o'clock ; and if people are to quarrel often, 
it follows as a corollary that their quarrels can not be protract- 
ed beyond ce^rtain limits. 

Mr. and Mxs. Gleg^ talked quite amicably about the Tulli- 
vers that evening. Mr. Glegg went the length of admitting 
that Tulliver was a sad man for getting into hot water, and 
like enoug^ to run through his property ; and Mrs. Glegg, 
meeting this acknowledgment half way, declared that it was 
beneath her to take notice of su<^h a man's conduct, and that, 
for her sister's sake, she would let him keep the five hundred 
a while longer, for when she put it out on a mortgage she 
should only get four per cent. 



CHAPTER XTTT. 

MR. TUUiviCB FUBTHEB ENTANGLES THE SKEIN OP LIFE. 

Owing to this new adiustment of Mrs. Glegg's thoughts, 
Mrs. Pullet found her task of mediation the next day surpris- 
ingly easy. Mrs. Glegg, indeed, checked her rather sharply 
for thinking it would be necessary to tell her elder sister what 
was the right mode of behavior in family matters. Mrs. Pul- 
let's argument that it would look ill in the neighborhood if 
peoi^ ghoidd have it in their power to say that there was a 



116 TEtS MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

quarrel in- the family, was particularly offensive. If the &mily 
name never suffered except through Mrs. Glegg, Mrs. Pallet 
might lay her head on her pillow in perfect confidence. 

" It's not to be expected, I suppose," observed Mrs. Glegg, 
by way of winding up the subject, " as I shall go to the mSl 
again before Bessy comes to see me, or as I shall go and &11 
down o' my knees to Mr.Tulliver and ask his pardon for show- 
ing him favors ; but I shall bear no malice, and when Mr. Tul- 
liver speaks civil to me, I'll speak civil to him. Nobody has 
any call to tell me what's becoming." 

Finding it unnecessary to plead for the Tullivers,it was 
natural that aunt Pullet should relax a little in her anxiety for 
them, and recur to the annoyance she had suffered yesterday 
from the offspring of that apparently ill-fated house. Mrs. 
Glegg heard a circumstantial narrative, to which Mr. Pullet's 
remarkable memory furnished some items; and while aunt 
Pullet pitied poor Bessy's bad luck with her children, and ex- 
pressed a half-formed project of paying for Maggie's being sent 
to a distant boarding-school, which would not prevent her be- 
ing so brown, but might tend to subdue some other vices- in 
her, aunt Glegg blamed Bessy for her weakness, and appealed 
to all witnesses who should be living when the Tulliver chit 
dren had turned out ill, that she, Mrs. Glegg, had always said 
how it would be from the very first, observing that it was 
wonderftd to herself how all her words came true. 

" Then I may call and tell Bessy you'll bear no malice, and 
every thing be as it was before?" Mrs. Pullet said, just before 
parting. 

"Yes, you may, Sophy," said Mrs. Glegg; "you may tell 
Mr. Tulliver, and Bessy too, as I'm not going to behave iU 
because folks behave ill to me ; I know it's my place, as the 
eldest, to set an example in every respect, and I do it. No- 
body can say different of me, if they'll teep to the truth." 

Mrs. Glegg being in this state of satisfaction in her own lofty 
magnanimity, I leave you to judge what effect was produced 
on her by the reception of a short letter from Mr.Tulliver that 
very evening, after Mrs. Pullet's departure, informing her that 
she needn't trouble her mind about her five hundred pounds, 
for it should be paid back to her in the course of the next 
month at farthest, together with the interest due thereon until 
the time of payment. And furthermore, that Mr.Tulliver had 
no wish to behave uncivilly to Mrs. Glegg, and she was wel- 
come to his house whenever she liked to come, but he desired 
no favors from her, either for himself or his children. 

It was poor Mrs. Tulliver who had hastened this catastrophe, 
entirely through that irrepressible hopefulness of hers whidi 



THB MILL ON THB FL08S. 11? 

led her to expect that similar causes may at any time produce 
different results. It had very often occurred in her experience 
that Mr. Tulliver had done something because other people had 
said he was not able to do it, or had pitied him for his sup- 
posed inability, or in any other way piqued his pride ; still, she 
thought to-day, if she told him when he came in to tea that 
sister Pullet was gone to try and make every thing up with 
sister Glegg, so that he needn't think about paying m the 
money, it would give a cheerful eflfect to the meal. Mr. Tulli- 
ver had never slackened in his resolve to raise the monej, but 
now he at once determined to write a letter to Mrs. Glegg 
which should cut off all possibility of mistake. Mrs. Pullet 
gone to beg and pray for Aim, indeed I Mr. Tulliver did not 
willingly write a letter, and found the relation between spoken 
and written language, briefly known as spelling, one of the 
most puzzling things in this puzzling world. Nevertheless, 
like all fervid writing, the task was done in less time than usual, 
and if the spelling differed from Mrs. Glegg's — r why, she be- 
longed, like himself, to a generation with whom spelling was 
a matter of private judgment. 

Mrs. Glegg did not alter her will in consequence of this let- 
ter, and cut off the Tulliver children from their sixth and sev- 
enth share in her thousand pounds ; for she had her principles. 
No one must be able to say of her when she was dead that she 
had not divided her money with perfect fairness among her 
own kin : in the matter of wiUs, personal qualities were subor- 
dinate to the great fundamental fact of blood ; and to be de- 
termined in the distribution of your property by caprice, and 
not make your legacies bear a direct ratio to degrees of kin- 
ship, was a prospective disgrace that would have embittered 
her life. This had always been a principle in the Dodson fam- 
ily ; it was one form of that sense of honor and rectitude which 
was a proud tradition in such families — a tradition which has 
been the salt of our provincial society. 

But, though the letter could not shake Mrs. Glegg's princi- 
ples, it made the family breach much more difficult to mend ; 
and as to the effect it produced on Mrs. Glegg's opinion of Mr. 
Tulliver, she begged to be understood from that time forth that 
she had nothing whatever to say about him : his state of mind, 
apparently, was too corrupt for her to contemplate it for a mo- 
ment. It was not until the evening before Tom went to school, 
at the beginning of August, that Mrs. Glegg paid a visit to her 
sister Tumver, sitting in her gig all the while, and showing her 
displeasure by markedly abstaining from all advice and criti- 
cism ; for, as she observed to her sister Deane, " Bessy must 
bear the consequences o' having such a husband, though Fm 



118 THB MILL ON THB FLOSS. 

sorry for her;" and Mrs.Deane agreed that Bessy was piti- 
able. 

That evening Tom observed to Maggie, " Oh my 1 Maggie, 
aunt Glegg's beginning to come again ; Fm glad Tm going to 
school. YavHU catch it all now !" 

Maggie was already so full of sorrow at the thought of 
Tom's going away from her that this plsrvful exultation of his 
•seemed very unkind, and she cried herself to sleep that night. 

Mr. Tulliver's prompt procedure entailed on him further 
promptitude in finding the convenient person who was desir- 
ous of lending five hundred pounds on bond. ^^It must be no 
client of Wakem's," he said to himself, and yet, at the end of 
a fortnight, it turned out to the contrary; not because Mr. 
Tulliver's will was feeble, but because external fact was stron- 
ger. Wakem's client was the only convenient person to be 
found. Mr. TuUiver had a destiny as well as (Edipus, and in 
this case he. might plead, like CEdipus, that his deed was inr 
flicted on him rather than committed by him. 



BOOK SECOND. 

SCHOOL-TIME. 



CHAPTER!. 

tom's "fiest halp.** 

Tom Tulliveb's sufferings during the first quarter he was 
at King's Lorton, under the distinguished care of the Rev. 
Walter Stelling,were rather severe. At Jacobs' academy, life 
had not presented itself to him as a difficult problem : there 
were plenty of fellows to play with, and Tom, being good at 
sOl active games — fighting especially — had that precedence 
among them which appeared to him inseparable from the per- 
sonality of Tom Tulliver. Mr. Jacobs himself, familiarly known 
as Old Goggles, from his habit of wearing spectacles, miposed 
no painM awe ; and if it was the property of snuflPjr old hyp- 
ocrites like hiTn to write like copperplate and surround their 
signatures wit^ arabesques, to si>ell without forethought, and 
to spout " My name is Nerval" without bungling, Tom, for his 
part, was rattier ^ad he was not in danger of ^ose mean ac- 
complishments. He was not going to be a snu£^ schoolmaster 
— ^he, but a substantial man, like his father, who used to go hunt- 
ing when be was younger, and rode a capital black mare — ^as 
pretty a bit of horseflesh as ever you saw : Tom had heard 
what her points were a hundred times. JBe meant to go hunt- 
ing too, and to be generally respected. When people were 
grown up, he considered, noDody inquired about their writing 
und Bi>elling : when he was a man, he should be master of ev- 
ery tiling, and do just as he liked. It had been very difficult 
for him to recondle himself to the idea that his school-time was 
to be prolonged, and that he was not to be brought up to his 
fothers business, which he had always thought extremdy pleas- 
ant, tor it was nothing but riding aoout, giving orders, and ^o- 
ing to market ; and he thought that a clergyman would give 
him fk great many Scripture lessons, and probably make him 
learn the Gospel and l^istle on a Sunday as well as the Col- 
lect. But in the absence of specific information, it was impos- 



120 THB MILL ON THB FLOSS. 

dble for him to imagine that school and a schoobnaster wonld 
be something entirely different from the academy of Mr. Ja- 
cobs. So, not to be at a deficiency in case of his finding genial 
companions, he had taken care to carry with him a small box 
of percossion-caps ; not that there was any thing particular to 
be done with them, but they would serve to impress strange 
boys with a sense of his familiarity with guni^. Thus poor 
Tom, though he saw very clearly through Maggie's illusions, 
was not without illusions of his own, which were to be cruelly 
dissipated by his enlarged experience at King's Lorton. 

He had not been there a fortnight before it w*as evident to 
him that life, complicated not only with the Latin grammar, 
but with a new standard of English pronunciation, was a very 
difficult business, made all the more obscure by a thick mist of 
bashfulness. Tom, as you have observed, was never an excep- 
tion among boys for ease of address ; but the difficulty of enun- 
ciating a monosyllable in reply to Mr. or Mrs. Stelling was so 
great, that he even dreaded to be asked at table whether he 
would have more pudding. As to the percussion-caps, he had 
almost resolved, in the bitterness of his heart, that he would 
throw them into a neighboring pond ; for not only was he the 
solitary pupil, but he began even to have a certain skepticism 
about guns, and a general sense that his theory of life was un- 
dermined. For Mr. Stelling thought nothing of guns, or horses 
either, apparently, and yet it was impossible for Tom to de- 
spise Mr. Stelling as he had despised Old Goggles. If there 
was any thing that was not thoroughly genuine about Mr. 
Stelling, it lay quite beyond Tom's power to detect it: it is 
only by a wide comparison of facts that the wisest fuU-grown 
man can distinguish well-rolled barrels from more supernal 
thunder. 

Mr. Stelling was a well-sized, broad-chested man, not yet 
thirty, with flaxen hair standing erect, and large lightish-gray 
eyes, which were always very wide open ; he had a sonorous 
bass voice, and an air of defiant self-confidence inclining to bra- 
zenness. He had entered on his career with great vigor, and 
intended to make a considerable impression on his fellow-men. 
The Rev. Walter Stelling was not a man who would remain 
among the " inferior clergy" all his life. He had a true British 
determination to push his way in the world. As a schoolmas- 
ter, in the first place ; for there were capital masterships of 
grammar-schools to be had, and Mr. Stelling meant to have^<me 
of them. But as a preacher also, for he meant always to pr^adk. 
in a striking manner, so as to have his congregation swelled "tif^ 
admirers from neighboring parishes, and to produce a great 
sensation whenever he took occasional duty for a brother 



TBDE MILL ON THS FLOSS. 121 

dergyman of minor gifts. The style of preaching he had 
chosen was the extemporaneous, which was held little short of 
the miracoloos in rural parishes like £[ing's Lorton. Some 
passages of Massillon and Bourdaloue, which he knew by heart, 
were really very effective when rolled out in Mr. Stelling's deep- 
est tones ; but as comparatively feeble appeals of his own were 
delivered in the same loud and impressive manner, they were 
often thought quite as striking by his hearers. Mr. Stelling's 
doctrine was of no particular school ; if any thing, it had a 
tinge of evangelicalism, for that was " the telling thing" just 
then in the diocese to which £[ing's Lorton belonged. Li 
short, Mr. Stelling was a man who meant to rise ia his profes- 
sion, and to rise by merit clearly, since he had no interest be- 
yond what might be promised Dy a problematic relationship 
to a great lawyer who nad not yet become lord chancellor. A 
clergyman who has such vigorous intentions naturally gets a 
little into debt at starting ; it is not to be expected that he 
will live in the meagre style of a man who means to be a poor 
curate all his life ; and if the few hundreds Mr. Timpson ad- 
vanced toward his daughter's fortune did not suffice for the 
purchase of handsome furniture, together with a stock of wine, 
a grand piano, and the laying out of a superior flower-garden, 
it followed in the most rigorous manner either that these things 
must be procured by some other means, or else that the Rev. 
Mr. Stellmg must go without them — which last alternative 
would be an absurd procrastination of the fruits of success, 
where success was certain. Mr. Stelling was so broad-chested 
and resolute that he felt equal to any thing ; he would become 
celebrated by shaking the consciences of his hearers, and he 
would by-and-by edit a Greek play, and invent several new 
readings. He had not yet selected the play, for having been 
married little more than two years, his leisure time had been 
much occupied with attentions to Mrs. Stelling ; but he had 
told that fine woman what he meant to do some day, and she 
felt great confidence m her husband as a man who understood 
every thing of that sort. 

Bat the immediate step to future success was to bring on 
Tom Tolliver during his first half year ; for, by a singular co- 
incidence, there had been some negotiation concerning another 
papUfrom the same neighborhood, and it might further a decis- 
ion in Mr. Stelling's favor if it were understood that young TuUi- 
ver, who, Mr. Stelling observed in conjugal privacy, was rather a 
rough cub, had made prodigious progress in a snort time. It 
was on this ground tnat he was severe with Tom about his 
lessons : he was clearly a boy whose poAvers would never be 
developed through the medium of the Latin grammar without 



122 THB MTLL ON THB FLOSS. 

the application of some sternness. Not that Mr. Stelling was 
a harsh-tempered man — quite the contrary ; he was jocose with 
Tom at table, and corrected his provincialisms and his deport- 
ment in the most playful manner ; but poor Tom was only the 
more cowed and confused by this double novelty, for he had 
never been used to jokes at all like Mr. Stelling's, and for the 
first time in his life he had a painful sense that he was all wrong 
somehow. When Mr. Stelling said, as the roast beef was being 
uncovered, " Now, Tulliver, which would you rather decline, 
roast beef or the Latin for it ?" Tom, to whom in his coolest 
moments a pun would have been a hard nut, was thrown into 
a state of embarrassed alarm that made every thing dim to 
him except the feeling that he would rather not have any thing 
to do with Latin : of course he answered " Roast beef," where- 
upon there followed much laughter and some practicsJ joking 
with the plates, from which Tom gathered that he had in some 
mysterious way refused beef, and, in fact, made himself appear 
" a silly." If he could haye seen a fellow-pupil undergo these 
painful operations and survive them in good spirits, he might 
sooner have taken them as a matter of course. But there are 
two expensive forms of education, either of which a parent may 
procure for his son by sending him as solitaiy pupil to a clergy- 
man : one is, the enjoyment of the reverend gentleman's undi- 
vided neglect ; the other is, the endurance of the reverend gen- 
tleman's undivided attention. It was the latter privilege for 
which Mr. Tulliver paid a high price in Tom's initiatory months 
at King's Lorton. 

That respectable miller and maltster had left Tom behind, 
and driven homeward in a state of great mental satisfaction. 
He considered that it was a happy moment for him when he 
had thought of asking Riley's advice about a tutor for Tom. 
Mr. Stelling's eyes were so wide open, and he talked in such 
an off-hand, matter-of-fact way, answering every difficult, slow 
remark of Mr. Tulliver's with, " I see, my good sir, I see ;" 
" To be sure, to be sure ;" " You want your son to be a man 
who will make his way in the world," that Mr. Tulliver was 
delighted to find in him a clergyman whose knowledge was so 
applicable to the every-day affairs of this life. Except Coun- 
selor Wylde, whom he had heard at the last sessions, Mr. Tul- 
liver thought the Rev. Mr. Stelling was the shrewdest fellow 
he had ever met with — not unlike Wylde, in fact : he had the 
same way of sticking his thumbs in the arm-holes of his waist- 
coat. Mr. Tulliver was not by any means an exception in mis- 
taking brazenness for shrewdness : most laymen thought Stell- 
ing shrewd, and a man of remarkable powers generally; it 
was chiefly by his clerical brethren that he was considered 



THB MUX ON THB FLOSS. 123 

rather a dull fellow. But he told Mr. Tulliver several stories 
about " swing" and incendiarism, and asked his advice about 
feeding pigs in so thoroughly secular and judicious a manner, 
with sp much polished glibness of tongue, that the miller 
thought, here was the very thing he wanted for Tom. He 
had no doubt this first-rate man was acquainted with every 
branch of information, and knew exactly what Tom must learn 
in order to become a match for the lawyers — which poor Mr. 
Tulliver himself did not know, and so was necessarily thrown 
for self-direction on this wide kind of inference. It is hardly 
fair to laugh at him, for I have known much more highly-in- 
structed persons than he make inferences quite as wide, and 
not at all wiser. 

As for Mrs. Tulliver — ^finding that Mrst Stelling's views as 
to the airing of linen and the frequent recurrence of hunger in 
a growing boy entirely coincided with her own ; moreover, 
that Mrs. Stelling, though so young a woman, and only antici- 
pating her second confinement, had gone through very nearly 
the same experience as herself with regard to the behavior 
and fundamental character of the monthly nurse, she express- 
ed great contentment to her husband, when they drove away, 
at leaving Tom with a woman who, in spite of her youth, seem- 
ed quite sensible and motherly, and asked advice as prettily as 
could be. 

" They must be very well off, though," said Mrs. Tulliver, 
" for every thing's as nice as can be all over the house, and 
that watered-silk she had on cost a pretty penny. Sister Pul- 
let has got one like it." 

" Ah I" said Mr. Tulliver, " he's got some income besides 
the curacy, I reckon. Perhaps her father allows 'em some- 
thing. There's Tom 'ull be another hundred to him, and not 
much trouble either, by his own account : he says teaching 
comes natural to him. That's wonderful, now," added Mr. 
Tulliver, turning his head on one side, and giving his horse a 
meditative tickling on the flank. 

Perhaps it was because teaching came naturally to Mr. Stell- 
ing that he set about it with that uniformity of method and in- 
dependence of circumstances which distinguish the actions of 
animals understood to be under the immediate teaching of na- 
ture. Mr. Broderip's amiable beaver, as that charming natur- 
alist tells us, busied himself as earnestly in constructing a dam, 
in a room up three pair of stairs in London, as if he had been 
laying his foundation in a stream or lake in Upper Canada. 
It was ** Binny's" function to build : the absence of water or 
<rf possible progeny was an accident for which he was not ao- 
oomitable. Wnh. the same unerring instinct Mr. Stdiki^ ^^ 



124 THB MILL ON THS FLOSS. 

to work at his natural method of instilliDg the Eton Grammar 
and Euclid into the mind of Tom TuUiver. This, he consider- 
ed, was the only basis of solid instruction : all other means of 
education were mere charlatanism, and could produce nothing 
better than smatterers. Fixed on this firm basis, a man might 
observe the display of various or special knowledge made by 
irregularly educated people with a pitying smile: all that sort 
of thing was very well, but it was impossible these peqple 
could mrm sound opinions. In holding this conviction Mr. 
Stellmg was not biased, as some tutors have been, by the ex- 
cessive accuracy or extent of his own scholarship ; and as to 
his views about Euclid, no opinion could have been freer from 
personal partiality. Mr. Stelling was very far from being led 
astray by enthusiasm, either religious or intellectual ; on the 
other hand, he had no secret belief that every thing was hum- 
bug. He thought religion was a very excellent thing, and 
Aristotle a great authority, and deaneries and prebends useful 
institutions, and Great Britain the provid^tial bulwark of 
Protestantism, and faith in the unseen a great support to af- 
flicted minds : he believed in all these things, as a Swiss hotel- 
keeper believes in the beauty of the scenery around him, and 
in the pleasure it gives to artistic visitors. And in the same 
way Mr. Stelling believed in his method of education : he had 
no doubt that he was doing the very best thing for Mr. Tul- 
liver's boy. Of course, when the miller talked of " mapping" 
and " summing" in a vague and diffident manner, Mr. Stelling 
had set his mind at rest by an assurance that he understood 
what was wanted ; for how was it possible the good man could 
form any reasonable judgment about the matter ? Mr. Sterl- 
ing's duty was to teach the lad in the only right way — indeed, 
he knew no other ; he had not wasted his time in the acquire- 
ment of any thing abnormal. 

He very soon set down poor Tom as a thoroughly stupid 
lad ; for though by hard labor he could get particular declen- 
sions into his brain, any thing so abstract as the relation be- 
tween cases and terminations could by no means get such a 
lodgment there as to enable him to recognize a chance genitive 
or dative. This struck Mr. Stelling as something more than 
natural stupidity ; he suspected obstinacy, or, at any rate, in- 
difference, and lectured Tom severely on his want of thorough 
application. " You feel no interest in what you're doing, sir," 
Mr. Stelling would say, and the reproach was painfully true. 
Tom had never found any difficulty in discerning a pointer 
from a setter when once he had been told the distmction, and 
his perceptive powers were not at all deficient. I fancy they 
were gjflite as strong as those of the Rev. Mr. Stelling; for 



THB HILL OK THE FLOSS. 125 

Tom could predict with accuracy what number of horses were 
cantering behind him, he could throw a stone right into the 
centre of a given ripple, he could guess to a fraction how many 
lengths of his stick it would take to reach across the play- 
ground, and could draw almost perfect squares on his slate 
without any measurement. But Mr. Stelling took no note of 
these things : he only observed that Tom's factdties failed him 
before the abstractions hideously symbolized to him in the 
pages of the Eton Grammar, and that he was in a state border- 
ing on idiocy with regard to the demonstration that two given 
triangles must be equal — ^though he could discern with great 
pro mptitude and certainty the fact that they were equal. 
Whence Mr. Stelling concluded that Tom's brain, being pecul- 
iarly impervious to etymology and demonstrations, was pecul- 
iarly in need of being plowed and harrowed by these patent 
implements: it was his favorite metaphor, that the classics and 
geometry constituted that culture of the mind which prepared 
it for the reception of any subsequent crop. I say nothing 
against Mr. Stelling's theory : if we are to have one regimen 
for all minds, his seems to me as good as any other. 1 only 
know it turned out as uncomfortably for Tom Tulliver as if he 
had been plied with cheese in order to remedy a gastric weak- 
ness which prevented him from digesting it. It is astonishing 
what a difi^rent result one gets by changing the metaphor! 
Once call the brain an intellectual stomach, and one's ingenious 
conception of the classics and geometry as plows and harrows 
seems to settle nothing. But then it is open to some one else 
to follow great authorities, and call the mind a sheet of white 
paper or a mirror, in which case one's knowledge of the di- 
gestive process becomes quite irrelevant. It was doubtless an 
mgenious idea to call the camel the ship of the desert, but it 
would hardly lead one far in training diat useful beast. Oh 
Aristotle ! if you had had the advantage of being "the freshest 
modem" instead of the greatest ancient, would you not have 
mingled your praise of metaphorical speech, as a sign of high 
inteUigence, with a lamentation that intelligence so* rarely 
shows itself in speech without metaphor — that we can so sel- 
dom declare what a thing is except oy saying it is something 
else? 

Tom Tulliver, being abundant in no form of speech, did not 
use* any metaphor to declare his views as to the nature of 
Latin : he never called it an instrument of torture ; and it was 
not until he had got on some way in the next half year, and in 
the Delectus, that he was advanced enough to call it a "bore" 
and "beastly stuff." At present, in relation to this demand 
that he should learn Latin declensions and coTiyi^\a\cri;i%<J^Q^s^ 



126 THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 

was in a state of as blank unimaginativeness concerning the 
cause and tendency of his sufferings as if he had been an inno- 
cent shrewmouse unprisoned in the split trunk of an ash tree 
in order to cure lameness in cattle, it is doubtless almost in- 
credible to instructed minds of the present day that a boy of 
twelve, not belonging strictly to " the masses," who are now 
understood to have the monopoly of mental darkness, should 
have had no distinct idea how there came to be such a thing 
as Latin on this earth ; yet so it was with Tom. It would 
have taken a long while to make conceivable to him that there 
ever eisisted a people who bought and sold sheep and oxen, 
and transacted tJie every-day affairs of life through the medium 
of this language, and still longer to make him understand why 
he should be called upon to learn it, when its connection with 
those affairs had become entirely latent. So far as Tom had 
gained any acquaintance with the Romans at Mr. Jacobs' acad- 
emy, his knowledge was strictly correct, but it went no farther 
than the fact that they were " in the ISfew Testament ;" and 
Mr. Stelling was not the man to enfeeble and emasculate his 
pupil's mind by simplifying and explaining, or to reduce the 
tonic effect of etymology oy mixing it with smattering, ex- 
traneous information such as is given to girls. 

Yet, strange to say, under this vigorous treatment Tom be- 
came more like a girl than he had ever been in his life before. 
He had a Large share of pride, which had hitherto found itself 
very comfortable in the world, despising Old Goggles, and re- 
posing in the sense of unquestioned rights ; but now this same 
pride met with nothing but bruises and crushings. Tom was 
too clear-sighted not to be aware that Mr. Stelling's standard 
of things was quite different, was certainly something higher 
in the eyes of the world than that of the people he had been 
living among, and that, brought in contact with it, he, Tom 
Tullivei, appeared uncouth and stupid : he was by no means 
indifferent to this, and his pride got into an uneasy condition 
which quite nullified his boyish self-satisfaction, and gave him 
sometKing of the girl's susceptibility. He was of a very firm, 
not to say obstinate disposition, but there was no brute-like re- 
bellion and recklessness in his nature : the human sensibilities 
predominated, and if it had occurred to him that he could en- 
able himself to show some quickness at his lessons, and so ac- 
quire Mr. Stelling's approbation, by standing on one leg for an 
inconvenient length of time, or rapping his head moderately 
against the wall, or any voluntary action of that sort, he would 
certainly have tried it. But no ; Tom had never heard that 
these measures would brighten the understanding or strength- 
en the verbal memory, and he was not given to hypothesis and 



THE HILL ON THE FLOSS. 127 

experiment. It did occur to him that he could perhaps get 
some help by praying for it ; but as the prayers he said every 
evening were forms learned by heart, he rather shrank from 
the novelty and irregularity of introducing an extempore pas- 
sage on a topic of petition for which he was not aware of any 
precedent. But one day, when he had broken down, for the 
fifth time, in the supines of the third conjugation, and Mr. 
StelUng, convinced that this must be carelessness, since it trans- 
cended the bounds of possible stupidity, had lectured him very 
seriously, pointing out that if he failed to seize the present gold- 
en opporturitty of learning supines, he would have to regret it 
when he became a man, Tom, more miserable than usual, de- 
termined to try his sole resource ; and that evening, after his 
usual form of prayer for his parents and" little sister" (he had 
begun to pray for Maggie when she was a baby), and that he 
might be able always to keep God's commandments, he added, 
in the same low whisper, " and please to make me always re- 
member my Latin." He paused a little to consider how he 
should pray about Euclid — whether he should ask to see what 
it meant, or whether there was any other mental state which 
would be more applicable to the case. But at last he added, 
"And make Mr. btelling say I sha'n't do Euclid any more. 
Amen." 

The fact that he got through his supines without mistake 
the next day encouraged him to persevere in this appendix to 
his prs^ers, and neutralized any skepticism that mi^ht have 
arisen from Mr. Stelling's continued demand for Euclid. But 
his faith broke down under the apparent absence of all help 
when he got into the irregular verbs. It seemed clear that 
Tom's despair under the caprices of the present tense did not 
constitute a nodus worthy of interference, and since this was 
the climax of his difficulties, where was the use of praying for 
help any longer ? He made up his mind to this conclusion in 
one of his dull, lonely evenings, which he spent in the study, 
preparing his lessons for the morrow. His eyes were apt to 
get dim over the page — though he hated crying, and was 
ashamed of it : he couldn't help thinking with some affection 
even of Spouncer, whom he used to fight and quarrel with ; he 
would have felt at home with Spouncer, and in a condition of 
superiority. And then the mill, and the river, and Yap prick- 
ing up his ears, ready to obey the least sign when Tom said 
" Hoigh !" would all come before him in a sort of calenture, 
when his %gers played absently in his pocket with his great 
knife, and his coil of whip-cord, and other relics of the past. 
Tom, as I said, had never been so much like a girl in his life 
before, and at that epoch of irregular verbs his spirit wa& {\sx- 



128 THB HILL ON THE FLOSS. 

ther depressed by a new means of mental development, which 
had been thought of for him out of school hours. Mrs. Stel- 
Hng had lately had her second baby, and as nothing could be 
more salutary for a boy^ than to feel himself useful, Mrs. Stellmg 
considered she was domg Tom a service by setting him to watch 
the little cherub Laura while the nurse was occupied with the 
sickly baby. It was quite a pretty employment for Tom to take 
little Laura out in the sunniest hour of the autumn day — ^it 
would help to make him feel that Lorton Parsonage was a 
home for tiim, and that he was one of the family. Tlie little 
cherub Laura, not being an accomplished walker at present, 
had a ribbon fastened round her waist, by which Tom held her 
as if she had been a little dog during the minutes in which she 
chose to walk ; but as these were rare, he was, for the most 
part, carrying this fine child round and round the garden, with- 
m sight of Mrs. Stelling's window — according to orders. If 
any one considers this unfair and even oppressive toward Tom, 
I beg him to consider that there are fenunine virtues which are 
with difficulty combined, even if they are not incompatible. 
When the wife of a poor curate contrives, under all her disad- 
vantages, to dress extremely well, and to have a style of coif- 
ftire which requires that her nurse shall occasionally officiate as 
lady's-maid — when, moreover, her dinner-parties and her draw- 
ing-room show that effi3rt at elegance and completeness of ap- 
pomtment to which ordinary women might imagine a large in- 
come necessary, it would be unreasonable to expect of her that 
she should employ a second nurse, or even act as a nurse her- 
self. Mr. Stelling knew better : he saw that his wife did won- 
ders already, and was proud of her : it was certainly not the 
best thinff in the world for youns: TuUiver's gait to carry a 
heavy chSd, but he had plenty of exercise in ling walks ^th 
himself, and next half year Mr. Stelling would see about having 
a drilling-master. Among the many means whereby Mr. Stet 
ling intended to be more fortunate than the bulk of his fellow- 
men, he had entirely given up that of having his own way in 
his own house. What then ? he had married " as kind a httle 
soul as ever breathed," according to Mr. Riley, who had been 
acquainted with Mrs. Stelling's blonde linglets and smiling de- 
meanor throughout her maiden life, and on the strength oithat 
knowledge would have been ready any day to pronounce that 
whatever domestic differences might arise in her married life 
must be entirely Mr. Stelling's fault. 

K Tom had had a worse disposition, he would c«ttainly have 
hated the little cherub Laura ; but he was too kind-hearted a 
lad for that ; there was too much in him of the fibre that tnms 
to true manliness, and to protecting pity for the weak. I am 



THE MILL ON TIIE FLOSS. 129 

afraid he hated Mrs. Stelling, and contracted a lasting dislike 
to pale blonde ringlets and broad plaits, as directly associated 
with haughtiness of manner and a frequent reference to other 

Esople's "dutjr." But he couldn't help playing with little 
aura, and liking to amuse her : he even sacribiiced his percus- 
sion-caps for her sake, in despair of their ever serving a greater 
purpose — ^thinking the small flash and bang would delist her, 
and thereby drawing down on himself a rebuke from Mrs. 
Stelling for teaching her child to play with fire. Laura was a 
sort of playfellow — and oh how Tom longed for playfellows ! 
In his secret heart he yearned to have Maggie with him, and 
was almost ready to dote on her exasperating act of forgetftd- 
ness ; though, when he was at home, he always represented it 
as a great favor on his part to let Maggie trot by his side on 
his pleasure excursions. 

And before this dreary half year was ended Maggie actually 
came. Mrs. Stelling had given a general invitation for the lit- 
tle girl to come and stay with her brother ; so, when Mr. Tul- 
liver drove over to King's Lorton late in October, Maggie came 
too, with the sense that she was taking a great journey, and 
beginning to see the world. It was Mr. Tulliver's first visit to 
see Tom, for the lad must learn not to think too much about 
home. ^ 

" Well, my lad," he said to Tom, when Mr. Stelling had left 
the room to announce the arrival to his wife, and Maggie had 
begun to kiss Tom freely, " you look rarely ! School agrees 
with you." . 

Tom wished he had looked rather ill. 

*' I don't think I am well, father," said Tom ; " I wish you'd 
ask Mr. Stelling not to let me do Euclid : it brings on the 
toothache, I think." 

(Tiie toothache was the only malady to which Tom had ever 
been subject.) 
. " Euclid, mv lad — why, what's that ?" said Mr. Tulliver.^ 

" Oh, I don't know : it's definitions, and axioms, and trian- 
gles, and things. It's a book I've got to learn in — ^there's no 
sense in it." 

" Go, go !" said Mr. Tulliver, reprovingly, " you musn't say 
so. You must learn what your master tells you. He knows 
what it's right for you to leam." 

*'*'FU help you now, Tom," said Maggie, with a little air of 
patronizing consolation. " Tm come to stay ever so long, if 
Mrs. Stelling asks me. Pve brought my box and my pinafores 
—haven't I, father ?" 

" T<m help me, you silly little thing !" said Tom, in such high 
•pirits at this announcement that he quite enjoyed th^ Wa^ c>^ 

F2 



130 THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

confoonditig Maggie by showing her a page of Eadid. " I 
should like to see you doing one of my lessons ! Why, I learn 
Latin too I Girls never learn such things. They're too siUy." 

" I know what Latin is very well," said Maggie, confidently. 
^^ Latin's a language. There are Latin words in the Diction- 
ary. There's bonus, a gift." 

" Now, you're just wrong there. Miss Maggie !" said Tom, 
secretly astonished. " You think you're very wise ! But * bo- 
nus' means ' good,' as it happens — ^bonus, bona, bonmn." 

"Well, that's no reason why it shouldn't mean *gift,*" said 
Maggie, stoutly. " It may mean several things — almost every 
word does. There's ' lawn' — ^it means the grass-plot, as wdl 
as the stuff pocket-handkerchiefs are made of" 

" Well done, little 'un," said Mr. TuUiver, laughing, while 
Tom felt rather disgusted with Maggie's knowingness, though 
beyond measure cheerful at the thought that she was going to 
stay with him. Her conceit would soon be overawed by the 
actual inspection of his books. 

Mrs. SteUing, in her pressing invitation, did not mention a 
longer time than a week for Maggie's stay ; but Mr. SteUing, 
who took her between his knees, and asked her where she 
stole her dark eyes ftom, insisted that she must stay a fort- 
night. Maggie thought Mr. Stelling was a charming man, and 
Mr. Tulliver was quite proud to leave his little wench where 
she would have an opportunity of showing her cleverness to 
appreciating strangers. So it was agreed that she should not 
be fetched home till the end of the fortnight. 

" Now, then, come with me into the study, Maggie," said 
Tom, as their father drove away. " What do you 5iake and 
toss your head now for, you silly ?" he continued ; for, though 
her hair was under a new dispensation, and was brushed 
smoothly behind her ears, she seemed still, in imagination, to 
be tossing it out of her eyes. "It makes you look as if you 
were crazy." 

" Oh, I can't help it," said Maggie, impatiently. " Don't 
tease me, Tom*. Oh, what books !" she exclaimed, as she saw 
the bookcases in the study. " How I should like to have as 
many books as that I" 

" Why, you couldn't read one of 'em," said Tom, triumph- 
antly. " They're all Latin." 

" No they aren't," said Maggie. " I can read the back of 
this .... History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Em- 
pire." 

" Well, what does that mean ? Y(m don't know," Eipid Tom, 
wagging his head. 

" But I could soon find out," said Maggie, scornfully. 



THB MILL ON THS FLOSS. 131 

" Why, how ??' 

" I should look inside, and see what it was about." 

"You'd better not, Miss Maggie," said Tom, seeing her 
hand on the volume. "Mr. Stemng lets nobody touch his 
books without leave, and 7" shall catch it i^you take it out." 

"Oh, very well! Let me see all your books then," said 
Maggie, turning to throw her arms round Tom's neck, and rub 
his cheek with her small round nose. 

Tom, in the gladness of his heart at having dear old Maggie 
to dispute with and crow over again, seized her round the 
waist, and began to jump with her round the large library ta- 
ble. Away they jumped with more and more vigor, till Mag- 
gie's hair flew from behind her ears, and twirled about like an 
animated mop. But the revolutions round the table became 
more and more irregular in their sweep, till at last, reachmg 
Mr. Stelling's reading-stand, they sent it thundering down with 
its heavy lexicons to the floor. Happily it was on the ground- 
floor, and the study was a one-stoned wing to the house, so 
that the downfall made no alarming resonance, though Tom 
stood dizzy and aghast for a few minutes, dreading the appear- 
ance of Mr. or Mrs. Stelling. 

" Oh, I say, Maggie," said Tom at last, lifting up the stand, 
" we must keep quiet here, you know. If we break any thing, 
Mrs. Stelling 'fl make us cry peccavi." 

"What's that?" said Maggie. 

" Oh, it's the Latin for a good scolding," said Tom, not with- 
out some pride in his knowledge. 

*' Is she a cross woman ?" said Maggie. 

*' I believe you !" said Tom, with an emphatic nod. 

**I think all women are crosser than men," said Maggie. 
" Aunt Glegg's a great deal crosser than Uncle Glegg, and 
mother scolds me more than father does." 

" Well, yow'ZZ be a woman some day," said Tom, " so you 
needn't talk." 

" But I shall be a cfever woman," said Maggie, with a toss. 

" Oh, I dare say, and a nasty conceited thmg. Every body 
'11 hate you." 

" But you oughtn't to hate me, Tom : it'll be very wicked 
of you, for I shall be your sister." 

" Yes ; but if you're a nasty disagreeable thing, I bJwlU hate 
you." 

" Oh but, Tom, you won't I I sha'n't be disagreeable. I 
shall be very good to you — ^and I shall be good to every body. 
You won't hate me really, will you, Tom ?" 

" Oh, bother ! never mind I Come, it's time for me to learn 
my lessons. See here I what I've got to do," sidd Tom, draw- 



132 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

ing Maggie toward him and showing her his theorem, while 
she pushed her hair behind her ears, and prepared herself to 
prove her capacity of helping him in Euclid. She began to 
read with full confidence in her own powers, but presently, be- 
coming quite bewildered, her face flushed with irritation. It 
was unavoidable — she must confess her incompetency, and she 
was not fond of humiliation. 

"It's nonsense!" she said, "and very ugly stuff; nobody 
need want to make it out." 

" Ah ! there now. Miss Maggie 1" said Tom, drawing the 
book away, and wagging his head at her, "you see you're not 
BO clever as you thought you were." 

"Oh," said Magffie, pouting, "I dare say I could make it 
out if I'd learned what goes before, as you have." 

"But that's what you just couldn't. Miss Wisdom," sidd 
Tom ; " for it's all the harder when you know what goes be- 
fore ; for then you've got to say what definition 3 is, and what 
axiom V. is. But get along with you now ; I must go on with 
this. Here's the Latin Orammar. See what you can make of 
that." 

Maggie found the Latin Grammar quite soothing after her 
mathematical mortification ; for she delighted in new words, 
and quickly found that there was an English Key at the end, 
which would make her very wise about Latin, at slight ex- 
pense. She presently made up her mind to skip the rules in 
the Syntax, the examples becanae so absorbing. These mys- 
terious sentences, snatched from an unknown context — ^like 
strange horns of beasts, and leaves of unknown plants, brought 
from some far-off region — gave boundless scope to her imagi- 
nation, and were all the more fascinating because they were in 
a peculiar tongue of their own, which she could learn to inter- 
pret. It was really very interesting — the Latin Grammar that 
Tom had said no girls could learn; and she was proud because 
she found it interesting. The most fragmentary examples 
were her favorites. Mors omnibus est communis would have 
been jejune, only she liked to know the Latin ; but the fortu- 
nate gentleman whom every one congratulated because he had 
a son " endowed with such a disposition" afforded her a great 
deal of pleasant conjecture, and she was quite lost in the "thick 
grove penetrable by no star" when Tom called out, 

" Now, then, Magsie, give us the Grammar I" 

" Oh, Tom, it's such a pretty book!" she said, as she jumped 
out of the large arm-chair to give it him; "it's much prettier 
than the Dictionary. I could learn Latin very soon. 1 don't 
think it's at all hard." 

" Oh, I know what you've been doing," said Tom ; " you've 



THS MILL ON THE FLOSS. 183 

been reading the English at the end. Any donkey can do 
that.'' 

Tom seized the book and opened it with a determined and 
bnsiness-like air, as much as to say that he had a lesson to 
learn which no donkeys would find themselves equal to. Mag- 
gie, rather piqued, turned to the bookcases to amuse hersetf 
with puzzling out the titles. 

Presently Tom called to her : " Here, Magsie, come and 
hear if I can say this. Stand at that end of uie table, where 
Mr. Stelling sits when he hears me." 

Magg ie obeyed and took the open book. 

** Where do you begin, Tom ?" 

"Oh, I begin at ^Appdlativa arhorum^ because I say all 
over ^gain what I've been learning this week." 

Tom sailed along pretty well iox three lines ; and Maggie 
was beginning to rorget her office of prompter in speculating 
as to what mxis could mean, which came twice over, when he 
stack fiist at Sunt etiam volucrum. 

"Don't tell me, Maggie ; Sunt etiam volucrum. . . . Sunt 
etiam volucrum . , . , ut ostrea^ cetics . . ." 

**No," said Maggie, opening her mouth and shaking her 
head. 

*^Sunt etiam volucrum^'* said Tom, very slowly, as if the 
next words might be expected to come sooner when he gave 
them this strong hint that they were waited for. 

*' C, e, u," said Maggie, gettmg impatient. 

*' Oh, I know — ^hold your tongue," said Tom. " Ceu passer^ 
hirundo; Ferarum, . . . , ferarum . . ," Tom took his pen- 
cil and made several hard dots with it on his book-cover. . . ." 
^^ ferarum, . . . ." 

" Oh dear, oh dear, Tom," said Maggie, " what a time you 
are! Ui . . . ." 

" Ut^ ostrea . . . ." 

" No, no," said Maggie, " ut, tigris . . . ." 

" Oh yes, now I can do," said Tom ; " it was tigris^ vvlpea^ 
Fd forgotten : vt tigris^ vulpes ; et IHacium.^^ 

With some further stammering and repetition, Tom got 
through the next few lines. 

" ^w, then," he said, " the next is what I've just learned for 
to-morrow. Give me hold of the book a minute." 

After some whispered gabbling, assisted by the beating of 
his fist on the table, Tom returned the book. 

^^Maseukt nomina in a," he began. 

"No, Tom," said Maggie, "that doesn't come next. It's 
Homen non cresJcens genittivo . . . ." 

" CretihmB genittivo^'* exclaimed Tom, with a derisive lau^h^ 



134 THB MILL ON THE. FLOSS. 

for Tom had learned this omitted passage for his yesterday's 
lesson, and a yomig gentleman does not require an mtimate or 
extensive acquaintance with Latin before he can feel the piti- 
able absurdity of a false quantity. Creakena genittivo I What 
a little silly you are, Maggie !" 

"Well, you needn't laugh, Tom, for you didn't remember it 
at all. I'm sure it's spelt so ; how was I to know ?" 

"Phee-e-e-h! I told you girls couldn't learn Latin. It's 
Nomen non crescens genitivoy 

"Very well, then," said Maggie, pouting. "I can say that 
as well as you can. And you don't mind your stops. For 
you ought to stop twice as long at a semicolon as you do at a 
comma, and you make the longest stops where there ought to 
be no stop at alL" 

" Oh, well, don't chatter. Let me go on." 

They were presently fetched to spend the remainder of the 
evening in the drawing-room, and Maggie became so animated 
with Mr. Stelling, who, she felt sure, admired her cleverness, 
that Tom was rather amazed and alarmed at her audacity. 
But she was suddenly subdued by Mr. Stelling's alluding to a 
little girl of whom he had heard that she once ran away to the 
gipsies. 

"What a very odd little girl that must be," said Mrs. Stell- 
ing, meaning to be playful ; but a playfulness that turned on 
her supposed oddity was not at all to Maggie's taste. She 
feared Mr. Stelling, after all, did not think much of her, and 
went to bed in rather low spirits. Mrs. Stelling, she felt, look- 
ed at her as if she thought her hair was very ugly because it 
hung down straight behind. 

Nevertheless, it was a very happy fortnight to Maggie, this 
visit to Tom. She was allowed to be in the study while he 
had his lessons, and in her various readings got .very deep into 
the examples in the Latin Grammar. The astronomer who 
hated women generally caused her so much puzzling specula- 
tion that she one day asked Mr. Stelling if all astronomers 
hated women, or whether it was only this particular astrono- 
mer. But, forestalling his answer, she said, 

" I suppose it's all astronomers ; because, you know, they 
live up in high towers, and if the women came there, they 
might talk and hinder them from looking at the stars." 

Mr. Stelling liked her prattle immensely, and they were on 
the best terms. She told Tom she should like to go to school 
to Mr. Stelling, as he did, and learn just the same things. She 
knew she could do Euclid, for she had looked into it again, 
and she saw what ABC meant : they were the names of the 
lines. 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 135 

" Fm sure you couldn't do it, now," said Tom ; " and I'll 
just ask Mr. Stelling if you could." 

**I don't mind," said the little conceited minx. "HI ask 
him myself." 

" Mr. Stelling," she said, that same evening when they were 
in the drawing-room, " couldn't I do Euclid, and all Tom's les- 
sons, if you were to teach me instead of him ?" 

" No, you couldn't," said Tom, indignantly. " Girls can't do 
Euclid ; can they, sir ?" 

" They can pick up a little of every thing, I dare say," said 
Mr. Stelling. " They've a good deal of superficial cleverness ; 
but they couldn't go far into any thing. They're quick and 
shallow." 

Tom, delighted with this verdict, telegraphed his triumph by 
wagging his head at Maggie behind 1M&. Stelling's chair. As 
for Maggie, she had hardly ever been so mortified. She had 
been so proud to be called " quick" all her little life, and now 
it appeared that this quickness was the brand of inferiority. 
It would have been better to be slow, like Tom. 

"Ha! ha! Miss Maggie," said Tom, when they were alone, 
" you see it's not such a fine thing to be quick. You'll never 
go far into any thing, you know." 

And Maggie was so oppressed by this dreadful destiny that 
she had no spirit for a retort. 

But when this small apparatus of shallow quickness was 
fetched away in the gig by Luke, and the study was once more 
quite lonely for Tom, he missed her grievously. He had real- 
ly been brighter, and had got throu^ his lessons better since 
she had been there ; and she had asked Mr. Stelling so many 
questions about the Roman empire, and whether there really 
ever was a man who said, in Latin, " I would not buy it for a 
farthing or a rotten nut," or whether that had only been turn- 
ed into Latin, that Tom had' actually come to a dim under- 
standing of the fact that there had once been people upon the 
earth who were so fortunate as to know Latin without learn- 
ing it through the medium of the Eton Grammar. This lu- 
minous idea was a great addition to his historical acquire- 
ments during this half year, which were otherwise confined to 
an epitomized history of the Jews. 

But the dreary half year did come to an end.. How glad 
Tom was to see the last yellow leaves fluttering before the 
cold wind ! The dark afternoons and the first December snow 
seemed to him far livelier than the August sunshine ; and that 
he might make himself the surer about the flight of the days 
that were carrying him homeward, he stuck twenty-one sticks 
deep in a comer of the garden when he was three weeks from 



136 THE HILL OK THE FLOSS. 

the holidays, and pulled up one every day with a great wrench, 
throwing it to a distance with a vigor of will which would 
have carried it to limbo, if it had been in the nature of sticks 
to travel so far. 

But it was worth purchasing, even at the heavy price of the 
Latin Grammar — ^the happiness of seeing the bright light in 
the parlor at home, as the gig passed noiselessly over the snow- 
covered bridge ; the happiness of passing from the cold air to 
the warmth, and the kisses, and the smiles of that familiar 
hearth, where the pattern of the rug, and the gftte, and the 
fire-irons were " first ideas" that it was no more possible to 
criticise than the solidity and extension of matter. There is 
no sense of ease like the ease we felt in those scenes where we 
were bom, where objects became dear to us before we had 
i known ^^^'^^^ "£j?h"'':2'^. and where the outer world seemed 
only an extension of our own personality: we accepted and 
loved it as we accepted our own sense of existence and our 
own limbs. Very commonplace, even ugly, that furniture of 
our early home might look if it were put up to auction ; an 
improved taste in upholstery scorns it ; and is not the striving 
after something better and better in our surroundings the 
grand characteristic that distinguishes man from the brute — 
or, to satisfy a scrupulous accuracy of definition, that distin- 
guishes the British man from the foreign brute ? But heaven 
knows where that striving might lead us if our affections had 
not a trick of twining round those old inferior things — ^if the 
loves and sanctities of our life had no deep immovable roots 
in memory. One's delight in an elderberry bush overhanging 
the confused leafage of a hedgerow bank, as a more gladden- 
ing sight than the finest cistus or fuchsias preading itself on 
the softest undulating turf, is an entirely unjustifiable prefer- 
ence to a landscape-gardener, or to any of those severely reg- 
ulated minds who are free from the weakness of any attacn- 
ment that does not rest on a demonstrable superiority of qual- 
ities. And there is no better reason for preferring this elder- 
berry bush than that it stirs an early memory — that it is no 
novelty in my life, speaking to me merely through my present 
sensibilities to form and color, but the long companion of my 
existence, that wove itself into my joys-wh^hjoysHW^evivia. 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 137 



CHAPTER n. 

THE CHBISTMAS HOLIDAYS. 

Fine old Christmas, with the snowy hair and ruddy face, 
had done his duty that year in the noblest fashion, and had set 
off his rich gifts of warmth and color with all the heightening 
contrast of frost and snow. 

Snow lay on the croft and river-bank in* undulations softer 
than the limbs of infancy ; it lay with the neatliest finished bor- 
der on every sloping roof, making the dark-red gables stand 
out with a new depth of color ; it weighed heavily on the lau- 
rels and fir-trees till it fell from them with a shuddering sound ; 
it clothed the rough turnip-field with whiteness, and made the 
sheep look like dark blotches ; the gates were all blocked up 
with the sloping drifts, and here and there a disregarded four- 
footed beast stood as if petrified " in unrecumbent sadness ;** 
there was no gleam, no shadow, for the heavens, too, were one 
still, pale cloud — ^no sound or motion in any thing but the dark 
river, that flowed and moaned like an unresting sorrow. But 
old Christmas smiled as he laid this cruel-seeming spell on the 
out-door world, for he meant to light up home with new bright- 
ness, to deepen all the richness of in-door color, and give a 
keener edge of delight to the warm fragrance of food : he 
meant to prepare a sweet imprisonment that would strengthen 
the primitive fellowship of kmdred, and make the sunshine of 
&mmar human faces as welcome as the hidden daystar. His 
kindness fell but hardly on the homeless — ^fell but hardly on 
the homes where the hearth was not very warm, and where 
the food had little fragrance ; where the human faces had no 
sunshine in them, but rather the leaden, blank-eyed gaze of un- 
expectant want. But the fine old season meant well ; and if 
he has not learned the secret how to bless men impartially, it 
is because his father Time, with ever-unrelenting purpose, still 
hides that secret in his own mighty, slow-beating heart. 

And yet this Christmas-day, in spite of Tom's fresh delight 
in home, was not, he thought, somehow or other, quite so hap- 
py as it had always been before. The red berries were just as 
abundant on the holly, and he and Maggie had dressed all the 
windows, and mantel-pieces, and picture-frames on Christmas- 
eve with as much taste as ever, wedding the thick-set scarlet 
clusters with branches of the black-berried ivy. Thet^ ba^ 



138 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

been singing nnder the windows after midnight — supernatural 
singing, Maggie always felt, in spite of Tom's contemptuous 
insistence that the singers were old Patch, the parish clerk, 
and the rest of the church choir : she trembled with awe when 
their caroling broke in upon her dreams, and the image of men 
in fustian clothes was always thrust away by the vision of an- 
gels resting on the parted cloud. But the midnight chaht had 
helped as usual to lift the morning above the level of common 
days ; and then there was the smell of hot toast and ale from 
the kitchen at the breakfast-hour ; the favorite anthem, the 
green boughs, and the short sermon, gave the appropriate fes- 
tal character to the church-going ; and aunt and uncle Moss, 
with all their seven children, were looking like so many re- 
flectors of the bright parlor fire when the church-goers came 
back, stamping the snow from their feet. The plum-pudding 
was of the same handsome roundness as ever, and came in 
with the symbolic blue flames around it, as if it had been he- 
roically snatched from the nether fires into which it had been 
thrown by dyspeptic Puritans; the dessert was as splendid as 
ever, with its golden oranges, brown nuts, and the crystalline 
light and dark of apple-jelly and damson cheese : in all these 
things Christmas was as it had always been since Tom could 
remember ; it was only distinguished, if by any thing, by supe- 
rior slidmg and snowballs. 

Christmas was cheeiy, but not so Mr.Tulliver. He was irate 
and defiant ; and Tom, though he espoused his father's quarrels 
and shared his father's sense of injury, was not without some 
of the feeling that oppressed Maggie when Mr. Tulliver got 
louder and more angry in narration and assertion with the in- 
creased leisure of dessert. The attention that Tom might have 
concentrated on his nuts and wine was distracted by a sense 
that there were rascally enemies in the world, and that the 
business of grown-up life could hardly be conducted without a 
good deal of quarreling. Now Tom was not fond of quarrel- 
ing, unless it could soon be put an end to by a fair stand-up 
fight with an adversary whom he had every chance of thrash- 
ing ; and his father's irritable talk made him uncomfortable, 
though he never accounted to himself for the feeling, or con- 
ceived the notion that his father was faulty in this respect. 

The particular embodiment of the evil principle now excit- 
ing Mr. TuUiver's determined resistance was Mr. Pivart, who, 
having lands higher up the Ripple, was taking measures for 
their irrigation, which either were, or would be, or were bound 
to be (on the principle that water was water) an infringement 
on Mr. Tulliver's legitimate share of water-power. Dix, who 
had a mill on the stream, was a feeble auxiliary of Old Harry 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 139 

compared with Pivart. Dix had been brought to his senses 
by arbitration, and Wakem's advice had not carried him far ; 
no : Dix, Mr. Tulliver considered, had been as good as no- 
where in point of law ; and in the intensity of his indignation 
against Pivart, his contempt for a baffled adversary like Dix 
began to wear the air of a friendly attachment. He had no 
male audience to-day except Mr. Moss, who knew nothing, as 
he said, of the " natur' o' mills," and could only assent to Mr. 
Tulliver's arguments on the a priori ground of family relation- 
ship and monetary obligation ; but Mr. Tulliver did not talk 
with the futile intention of convincing his audience — ^he talked 
to relieve himself; while good Mr. Moss made strong efforts 
to keep his eyes wide open, in spite of the sleepiness which an 
imusually good dinner produced in his hard-worked frame. 
Mrs. Moss, more alive to the subject, and interested in every 
thing that affected her brother, listened and put in a word as 
often as maternal preoccupations allowed. 

" Why, Pivart's a new name hereabout, brother, isn't it ?" 
she said : " he didn't own the land in father's time, nor yours 
either, before I was married.'* 

" New name ? Yes, I should think it is a new name," said 
Mr. Tulliver, with angry emphasis. " Dorlcote Mill 's been in 
our femily a hundred year and better, and nobody ever heard 
of a Pivart meddling with the river, till this fellow came and 
bought Bincome's farm out of hand, before any body else could 
so much as sajr * snap.' But I'll IHvart him !" added Mr. Tul- 
liver, lifting his glass with a sense that he had defined his res- 
olution in an unmistakable manner. 

" You won't be forced to go to law with him, I hope, broth- 
er ?" said Mrs. Moss, with some anxiety. 

** I don't know what I shall be forced to ; but I know what 
I shall force him to, with his dikes and erigations, if there's 
any law to be brought to bear o' the right side. I know well 
enough who's at the bottom of it ; he's got Wakem to back 
him and e^g him on. I know Wakem tells him the law can't 
touch him for it, but there's folks can handle the law besides 
Wakem. It takes a big raskil to beat him ; but there's bigger 
to be found, as know more o' th' ins and outs o' the law, else 
how came Wakem to lose Brumley's suit for him ?" 

Mr. Tulliver was a strictly honest man, and proud of being 
honest, but he considered that in law the ends of justice could 
only be achieved by employing a stronger knave to frustrate a 
weaker. Law was a sort of cockfight, in which it was the 
business of injured honesty to get a game bird with the best 
pluck and the strongest spurs. 

"Gore's no fool — you needn't tell me that," he observed 



140 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

presently, in a pugnacious tone, as if poor Gritty had been 
urging that lawyers capabilities ; " but, you see, hie isn't np to 
the law as Wakem is. And water's a ve^ particular thing — 
you can't pick it up with a pitchfork. That's why it's been 
nuts to Old Harry and the lawyers. It's plain enough what's 
the rights and the wron^ of water, if you look at it straight- 
forrard ; for a river's a nver, and if you've got a mill, you must 
have water to turn it ; and it's no use telling me, Pivart's eri- 
gation and nonsense won't stop my wheel : I know what be- 
longs to water better than that. Talk to me o' what th' en- 
gineers say ! I say it's common sense, as Pivart's dikes must 
do me an injury. But if that's their engineering, I'll put Tom 
to it by-and-by, and he shall see if he can't find a bit more sense 
in th' engineering business than what that comes to.'* 

Tom, looking round with some anxiety at this announce- 
ment of his prospects, imthinkingly withdrew a small rattle 
he was amusing Baby Moss with, wnereupon she, being a baby 
that knew her own mind with remarkable clearness, instanta- 
neously expressed her sentiments in a piercing yell, and was 
not to be appeased even by the restoration of the rattle, feel- 
ing apparently that the original wrong of having it taken from 
her remained in all its force. Mrs. Moss humed away with 
her into another room, and expressed to Mrs. Tulliver, who 
accompanied her, the conviction that the dear child had good 
reasons for crying ; implying that if it was supposed to be the 
rattle that baby clamored for she was a misunderstood baby. 
The thoroughly justifiable yell being quieted, Mrs. Moss look- 
ed at her sister-in-law and said, 

"I'm sorry to see brother so put out about this water- 
work." 

" It's your brother's way, Mrs. Moss ; Fd never any thing 
o' that sort before I was married," said Mrs. Tulliver, with a 
half-imphed reproach. She always spoke of her husband as 
" your brother" to Mrs. Moss in any case when his line of con- 
duct was not matter of pure admiration. Amiable Mrs. Tul- 
liver, who was never angry in her life, had yet her mild share 
of that spirit without which she could hardly have been at 
once a Dodson and a woman. Being always on the defensive 
toward her own sisters, it was natural that she should be keen- 
ly conscious of her superiority, even as the weakest Dodson, 
over a husband's sister, who, besides being poorly ofl^ and in- 
clined to " hang on" her brother, had the good-natured sub- 
missiveness of a large, easy-tempered, untidy, prolific woman, 
'with affection enough in her not only for her own husband and 
abundant children, but for any number of collateral relations. 

"I hope and pray he won't go to law," said Mrs. Moss, 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 141 

** for there's never any knowing where that 'U end. And the 
right doesn't allays win. This Mr. Pivart's a rich man, by 
what I can make out, and the rich mostly get things liieir 
own way." 

"As to that," said Mrs. TuUiver, stroking her dress down, 
" Fve seen what riches are in my own family, for my sisters 
have got husbands as can afford to do pretty much what they 
like. But I think sometimes I shall be drove off my head witn 
the talk about this law and erigation ; and my sisters lay all 
the fault to me, for they don't know what it is to marry a man 
like your brother — ^how should they ? Sister Pullet has her 
own way from morning till night." 

" Weil," said Mrs. Moss, " I don't thmk I should like my 
husband if he hadn't got any wits of his own, and I had to find 
head-piece for him. It's a deal easier to do what pleases one's 
husband than to be puzzling what else one should do." 

" If people come to talk o' doing what pleases their hus- 
bands, said Mrs. TuUiver, with a famt imitation of her sister 
Glegg, " I'm sure your brother might have waited a long while 
before he'd have found a wife that 'ud have let him have his 
say in every thing, as I do. It's nothing but law and erigation 
now, from when we first get up in the morning till we go to 
bed at night ; and I never contradict him ; I only say, ' Well, 
Mr. Tulliver, do as you like ; but whativer you do, don't so to 
law.' " 

Mrs. Tulliver, as we have seen, was not without influence 
over her husband. No woman is ; she can always incline him 
to do either what she wishes, or the reverse ; and on the com- 
posite impulses that were threatening to hurry Mr. Tulliver 
mto "law," Mrs. Tulliver's monotonous pleading had doubt- 
less its share of force ; it might even be comparable to that 
proverbial feather which has the credit or discredit of break- 
mg the camel's back ; though, on a strictly impartial view, the 
blame ought rather to lie with the previous weight of feathers 
which had already placed the back m such imminent peril that 
an otherwise innocent feather could not settle on it without 
mischief. Not that Mrs. TulUver's feeble . beseeching could 
have had this feather's weight in virtue of her single personal- 
ity ; but whenever she departed from entire assent to her hus- 
band, he saw in her the representative of the Dodson family ; 
and it was a guiding principle with Mr. Tulliver to let the Dod- 
sons know that they were not to domineer over him^ or, more 
specifically, that a male Tulliver was far more than equal to 
four female Dodsons, even though one of them was Mrs. 
Glegg. 

Bat not even a direct argument from that typical Podson 



142 THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 

female herself against his going to law could have heightened 
his disposition toward it so much as the mere thought of Wa- 
kem, continually freshened by the sight of the too able attor- 
ney on market-days. Wakem, to his certain knowledge, was 
(metaphorically speaking) at the bottom of Pivart's irrigation: 
Wakem had tried to make Dix stand out, and go to law about 
the dam : it was unquestionably Wakem who had caused Mr. 
Tulliver to lose the suit about tne right of road and the bridge 
that made a thoroughfare of his land for every vagabond who 
preferred an opportunity of damaging private property to 
walking like an honest man along the high road : all lawyers 
were more or less rascals, but Wakem's rascality was of that 
peculiarly aggravated kind which placed itself in opposition to 
that form of right embodied in Mr. Tulliver's interests and 
opinions. And as an extra touch of bitterness, the injured 
miller had recently, in borrowing the five hundred pounds, 
been obliged to carry a little business to Wakem's office on 
his own account. A hook-nosed glib fellow I as cool as a cu- 
cumber — always looking so sure of his game I And it was 
vexatious that Lawyer Gore was not more like him, but was 
a bald, round-featured man, with bland manners and fat hands 
— a game-cock that you would be rash to bet upon agsunst 
Wakem. Gore was a sly fellow ; his weakness did not ue on 
the side of scrupulosity ; but the largest amount of winking 
however significant, is not equivalent to seeing through a stone 
wall ; and confident as Mr. Tulliver was in his principle that 
water was water, and in the direct inference that Pivart had 
not a leg to stand on in this af&ir of irrigation, he had an un- 
comfortable suspicion that Wakem had more law to show 
against this (rationally) irrefragable inference than Gore could 
show for it. But then, if they went to law, there was a chance 
for Mr. Tulliver to employ Counselor Wylde on his side, in- 
stead of having that admirable bully against him; and the 
prospect of seeing a witness of Wakem's made to perspire and 
become confounded, as Mr. Tulliver's witness had once been, 
was alluring to the love of retributive justice. 

Much rumination had Mr. Tulliver on these puzzling subjects 
during his rides on the gray horse — ^niuch turning of the head 
from side to side, as the scales dipped alternately; but the 
probable result was still out of sight, only to be reached through 
much hot argument and iteration in domestic and social life. 
That initial stage of the dispute which consisted in the narra- 
tion of the case and the enforcement of Mr. Tulliver's views 
concerning it throughout the. entire circle of his connections 
would necessarily take time, and at the beginning of February, 
when Tom was going to school again, there were scarcely .any 



THE MILL ON THB FL08S. 143 

new items to be detected in his fttber^s statement of the case 
against Pivart, or an^ more 8pe<»fio indication of the measures 
he was bent on taking against that rash contravener of the 
principle that water was water. Iteration, like iiiction, is 
likely to generate heat instead of progress, and Mr. Tulliver's 
heat was certainly more and more palpable. If there had been 
no new evidence on any other point, there had been new evi- 
dence that Pivart was as " thick as mud" with Wakem. 

" Father," swd Tom, one even ing near the end of the holi- 
days, " uncle Glegg says Lawyer Wakem is going to send his 
son to Mr. Stelling. it isn't true what they said about his 
going to France. You won't like me to go to school with 
Wakem's son, shall you ?" 

** It's no matter for that, my boy," said Mr. Tulliver ; " don't 
you learn any thing bad of him, that's all. The lad's a poor 
deformed creatur, and takes after his mother in the face : I 
think there isn't much of his father in him. It's a sign Wakem 
thinks high o' Mr. Stelling, as he sends his son to him, and 
Wakem knows meal from bran." 

Mr. Tulliver in his heart was rather proud of the fact that 
his son was to have the same advantages as Wakem's, but 
Tom was not at all easy on the point ; it would have been 
much clearer if the lawyer's son had not been deformed, for 
then Tom would have had the prospect of pitching into him 
with all that freedom which is derived from a mgh moral 
sanction. 



CHAPTER m. 

THB NEW SCHOOLFELLOW. 



It was a cold, wet January day on which Tom went back to 
school — SL day quite in keeping with this severe phase of his 
destiny. If he had not carried in his pocket a parcel of sugar- 
candy and a small Dutch doll for little Laura, there would 
have been no ray of expected pleasure to enliven the general 
gloom. But he liked to think how Laura would put out her 
Dps and her tiny hands for the bits of sugar-candy ; and, to 
give the greater keenness to these pleasures of imagination, he 
took out the parcel, made a small hole in the paper, and bit 
off a crystal or two, which had so solacing an effect under the 
confinea prospect and damp odors of the gig-umbrella, that he 
repeated the process more than once on his way. 

** Well, Tulliver, we're glad to see you again," said Mr. 
Stelling, heartily. "Take off your wrappings and come into 
the study till ^tinner. Tou'U find a bright fire there^ and a 
new companion." 



144 THE HXXX ON THB FLOSS. 

Tom felt in an nnoomfortable flatter as he took off his woolen 
comforter and other wrappings. He had seen Philip Wakem 
at St. Ogg's, but had always tamed his eyes away from him as 
quickly as possible. He would have disliked having a deformed 
boy for his companion even if Philip had not been the son of 
a bad man. And Tom did not see how a bad man's son could 
be very good. His own father was a good man, and he would 
readily have fought any one who said the contrary. He was 
in a state of mingled embarrassment and defiance as be fol- 
lowed Mr. Stelling to the study. 

"Here is a new companion for you to shake hands with, 
TuUiver," said that gentleman on entering the stud^ — " Mas- 
ter Philip Wakem. I shall leave you to make acquaintance by 
yourselves. You already know something of each other,! 
unagine, for you are neighbors at home." 

Tom looked confused and awkward, while Philip rose and 
glanced at him timidly. Tom did not like to go up and put 
out his hand, and he was not prepared to say, " How do you 
do ?" on so short a notice. 

Mr. Stelling wisely turned away and closed the door behind 
him : boys' shyness only wears off in the absence of their elders. 

Philipwas at once too proud and too timid to walk toward 
Tom. He thought, or rather felt, that Tom had an aversion 
to looking at him ; every one, ahnost, disliked looking at him ; 
and his deformity was more conspicuous when he walked.*. So 
they remained without shaking hands or even speaking, while 
Tom went to the fire and warmed himself, every now and then 
casting furtive glances at Philip, who seemed to be drawing 
absently first one object and then another on a piece of paper 
he had before him. He had seated himself again, and, as he 
drew, was thinking what he could say to Tom, and trying to 
overcome his own repugnance to making the first advances. 

Tom began to look oftener and longer at Philip's face, for 
he could see it without noticing the hump, and it was really 
not a disagreeable face — veiy old-looking, Tom thought. He 
wondered how much older Philip was than himself. An anat- 
omist — even a mere physiognomist — would have seen that the 
deformity of Philip's spine was not a congenital hump, but the 
result of an accident in infancy ; but you do not expect from 
Tom any acquaintance with such distinctions ; to him, Philip 
was simply a humpback. He had a vague notion that the de- 
formity of Wakem s son had some relation to the lawyer's ras- 
cality, of which he had so often hear4 his father talk with hot 
emphasis ; and he felt, too, a half-admitted fear of him as prob- 
ably a spiteful fellow, who, not being able to fight you, had 
cunning ways of doing you a mischirf by the sly. There was 



THB HILL ON THE FLOSS. 145 

a hmnpbaoked tailor in the neighborhood of Mr. Jacobs' acad- 
emy wno was considered a very unamiable character, and was 
much hooted after by public-spirited boys solely on the ground 
of his unsatisfactory moral qualities, so that Tom was not with- 
out a basis of fact to go upon. Still, no face could be more 
xmlike that ugly tailor's than this mdancholy boy's face ; the 
brown hair round it waved and curled at the ends like a girl's : 
Tom thought that truly pitiable. This Wakem was a pale, 
puny fellow, and it was quite clear he would not be able to 
play at any thing worth speaking of; but he handled his pen- 
cil in an enviable manner, and was apparently making one 
thing after another without any trouble. What was he draw- 
ing? Tom was quite warm now, and wanted so^iething new 
to be going forward. It was certainljr more agreeable to have 
an ill-natured humpback as a companion than to stand looking 
out of the study-window at the rain, and kicking his foot 
against the washboard in solitude ; something would happen 
every day — " a quarrel or something ;" and Tom thought he 
shoidd rather like to show Philip that he had better not try 
his spiteful tricks on him. He suddenly walked across the 
hearth, and looked over Philip's paper. 

** Wliy, that's a donkey with jjanniers — and a spaniel, and 
partridges in the corn !" he exclaimed, his tongue being com- 
pletely loosed by surprise and admiration. " Oh my buttons ! 
I wish I could draw hke that. Pm to learn drawing this half— 
I wonder if I shall learn to make dogs and donkeys !" 

"Oh, you can do them without learning," said Philip; "I 
never learned drawing." 

" Never learned ?" said Tom, in amazement. " Why, when 
I make dogs and horses, and those things^ the heads and the 
legs won't come right, though I can see how they ought to be 
very well. I can make houses, and all sorts of chimneys — 
chimneys going all down the wall, and windows in the roof, 
and all that. But I dare say I could do dogs and horses if I 
was to try more," he added, reflecting that Philip might falsely 
suppose that he was going to " knock under," if he were too 
fr^k about the imperfection of his accomplishments. 

" Oh yes," said Philip, " it's very easy. You've only to look 
well at things, and draw them over and over again. What you 
do wrong once you can alter the next time." 

"But haven't you been taught any thing?" said Tom, be- 
ginning to have a puzzled suspicion that Philip's crooked back 
might be the source of remarkable facultie's. " I thought you'd 
been to school a long while." 

"Yes," said Philip, smiling, "Pve been taught Latin, and 
Greek, and mathematics — ^and writing, and such tbisL^^" 

G 



140 THE MILL OK I'HE FLOSS. 

^' Oh but, I s&Yj yon don't like Latin, thongh, do yon ?'' said 
Tom, lowering his voice confidentially. 

"Pretty well; I don't care much about it," s^dd Philip. 

"Ah I but perhaps you haven't got into the Prc^prioe qucB 
tnaribus^^ said Tom, nodding his head sideways, as much as to 
say, " that was the test : it was easy talking till you came to 
that:\ 

Philip felt some bitter complacency in the promising stupid- 
ity of this well-made active-looking boy ; but made polite by 
his own extreme sensitiveness, as well as by his desire to con- 
ciliate, he checked his inclination to laugh, and said, quietly, 

"I've done with the grammar; I doxTt learn that any 
more." 

"Then you won't have the same lessons as I shall?" said 
Tom, with a sense of disappointment. 

" No ; but I dare say I can help you. I shall be very glad 
to help you if I can." 
. Tom did not say "Thank you," for he was quite absorbed 
in the thought that Wakem's son did not seem so spiteful a 
fellow as might have been expected. 

" I say," he said presently, " do you love your father ?" 

"Yes," said Philip, coloring deeply; "don't youlove yours?" 

" Oh yes I only wanted to know," said Tom, rather 

ashamed of himself, now he saw Philip coloring and looking 
uncomfortable. He found much difficulty in adjusting his at- 
titude of-mind toward the son of Lawyer Wakem, and it had 
occurred to him that if Philip disliked his father, that fact might 
go some way toward clearing up his perplexity. 

" Shall you learn drawing now ?" he said, by way of chang- 
ing the subject. 

" No," said Philip. " My father wishes me to give all my 
time to other things now." 

" What I Latin, and Euclid, and those thin^ ?" said Tom. 

" Yes," said Philip, who had left off using his pencil, and was 
resting his head on one hand, while Tom was leaning forward 
on both elbows, and looking with increasing admiration on the 
dog and the donkey. 

" And you don't mind that ?" said Tom, with strong curi- 
osity. 

" No ; I like to know what every body else knows. I can 
study what I like by-and-by." 

" I can't think why any body should learn Latin," said TonL 
" It's no good." 

" It's part of the education of a gentleman," said Philip. 
"All gentlemen learn the same things." 

"What! do you think Su* John Crake, the master of the 



THE MnX ON THB FL088. 147 

harriers, knows Latin ?" said Tom, who had often thought he 
should like to resemble Sir John Crake. 

"He learned it when he was a boy, of course,'* said Philip. 
" But I dare say he's forgotten it." 

" Oh, well, I can do that, then," said Tom, not with any epi- 
grammatic intention, but with serious satisfaction at the idea 
that, as far as Latin was t)oncemed, there was no hinderance to 
his resembling Sir John Crake. " Only you're obH^ed to re- 
member it wmle you're at school, else you've got to Team ever 
so many lines of ' Speaker.' Mr. Stelling's very particular — did 
you know ? He'll have you up ten times if you say * nam' for 
'* jam :' he won't let you go a letter wrong, /can tell you." 

" Oh, I don't mind," said Philip, unable to choke a laugh ; 
^f[ can remember things easily. And there are some lessons 
Fm very fond of. Pm very fond of Greek history, and every 
thing about the Greeks. 1 should like to have been a Greek 
and fought the Persians, and then have come home and have 
written tragedies, or else have been listened to by every body 
for my wisdom, like Socrates, and have died a grand death." 
(Philip, you perceive, was* not without a wish to impress the 
well-made barbarian with a sense of his mental superiority.) 

"Why, were the Greeks great fighters?" said Tom, who 
' saw a vista in this direction. "Is there any thing like David, 
and Goliath, and Samson in the Greek history ? Those are 
the only bits I like ii} the history of the Jews." 

" Oh, there are very fine stories of that sort about the Greeks 
— ^about the heroes of early times who killed the wild beasts, 
as Samson did. And in the Odyssey — that's a beautiful poem 
— ^there's a more wonderful giant than Goliath — Polypheme, 
who had only one eye in the middle of his forehead; and 
Ulysses, a little fellow, but very wise and cunning, got a red- 
hot pine-tree and stuck it into this one eye, and made him roar 
like . a thousand bulls." 

" Oh what fun I" said Tom, jumping away from the table, 
and stamping first with one leg and then the other. " I say, 
can you tell me all about those stories ? Because I sha'n't learn 

Greek, you know Shall I?" he added, pausing in his 

stamping with a sudden alarm, lest the contrary might be pos- 
sible. " Does every ^ntleman learn Greek ? . . . . Will Mr. 
Stdling make me be^ with it, do you think ?" 

"No, I should thmk not — very likely not," isid Philip. 
" But you may read those stories without knowing Greek. 
rvejKOt them m English." 

" Oh, but I don't l&e readmg ; Pd sooner have you tell them 
me — but only the fighting ones, you know. My sister Mag- 
gie is always wanting to tell me stories— 4}ut they're %\?q;:^ 



148 THS MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

things. Girls^ stories always are. Can yon tell a good many 
fighting stories ?" 

" Oh yes," said Philip, " lots of them, besides the Greek sto- 
ries. I can tell you about Richard Coeur de lion and Saladin, 
and about William Wallace, and Robert Bruce, and James 
Douglas — ^I know no end." 

"You're older than I am, aren't you?" said Tom. 

" Why, how old are you f I'm fifteen." 

"Fm only going in fourteen," said Tom. " But I thrashed 
all the fellows at Jacobs' — ^that's where I was before I came 
here. And I beat 'em all at bandy and climbing. And I wish 
Mr. Stelling would let us go fishing. I could show you how 
to fish. You could fish, couldn't you? It's only standing, 
and sitting still, you know." 

Tom, in his turn, wished to make the balance dip in his fa- 
vor. This hunchback must not suppose that his acquaintance 
with fighting stories put him on a par with an actual fighting 
hero like Tom Tulliver. Philip winced under this allusion to 
his unfitness for active sports, and he answered almost peev- 
ishly, 

"I can't bear fishing. I think people look like fools sitting 
watching a line hour after hour, or else throwing and throw- 
ing, and catching nothing." 

"Ah I but you wouldn't say they looked like fools when 
they landed a big pike, I can tell you," said Tom, who had 
never caught any thing that was " big" in his life, but whose 
imagination was on the stretch with indignant zeal for the 
honor of sport. Wakem's son, it was plain, had his disagree- 
able points, and must be kept in due check. Happily for the 
harmony of this first interview, they were now called to din- 
ner, and Philip was not allowed to develop farther his unsound 
views on the subject of fishing. But Tom said to himself that 
was just what he should have expected from a hunchback. 



CHAPTER IV. 
"thb young idea." 



The alternations of feeling in that first dialogue between 
Tom and Philip continued to mark their intercourse even after 
many weeks of school-boy intimacy. Tom never quite lost tiie 
feeling that Phihp, being the son of a " rascal," was his natu- 
ral enemy — ^never thoroughly overcame his repulsion to Philip's 
deformity : he was a boy who adhered tenaciously to impres- 
mona once received : as with all minds in which mere perce{ir 



THS HILL ON THE FLOSS. 149 

tion predominates over thought and emotion, the external re- 
mained to him rigidly what it was in the first instance. But 
then it was impossible not to like Philip's company when he 
was in a good hmnor ; he could help one so well in one's Latin 
exercises, which Tom regarded as a kind of puzzle that could 
only be found out by a lucky chance ; and he could tell such 
wonderful fighting stories about Hal of the Wind, for exam- 
ple, and other heroes who were especial fevorites with Tom, 
because they laid about them with heavy strokes. He had 
small opinion of Saladin, whose cimeter could cut a cushion in 
two in an instant : who wanted to cut cushions ? That was a 
stupid story, and he didn't care to hear it again. But when 
Robert Bruce, on the black pony, rose in his stirrups, and, lift- 
ing his good battle-axe, cracked at once the helmet and the 
skull of the too-hasty knight at Bannockbum, then Tom felt 
all the exaltation of sympathy, and, if he had had a cocoanut 
at hand, he would have cracked it at once with the poker. 
Philip, in his happier moods, indulged Tom to the top of his 
bent, heightening the crash, and bang, and fury of every fight 
with all the artillery of epithets and similes at his command. 
But he was not always in a good humor or happy mood. The 
slight spurt of peevish susceptibility which had escaped him 
in their first interview was a symptom of a perpetually-recur- 
ring mental ailment — ^half of it nervous irritability, half of it 
the heart-bitterness produced by the sense of his deformity. 
In these fits of susceptibility, every glance seemed to him to be 
charged either with offensive pity or with ill-repressed disgust; 
at the very least it was an indmerent glance, and Philip felt 
indifference as a child of the South feels the chill air of a 
northern spring. Poor Tom's blundering patronage when 
they were out of doors together would sometimes make him 
turn upon the well-meaning lad quite savagely, and his eyes, 
usually sad and quiet, would flash with any thin^ but playM 
lightning. No wonder Tom retained his suspicions of the 
humpback. 

But Philip's self-taught skillin drawing was another link be- 
tween them ; for Tom found, to his disgust, that his new draw- 
ing-master gave him no dogs and donkeys to draw, but brooks, 
and rustic bridges, and ruins, all with a general softness of 
black-lead surface, indicating that nature, if any thing, was 
rather satiny; and as Tom's feeling for the picturesque in 
land was at present quite latent, it is not surpnsing that Mr. 
Gk)odrich's productions seemed to him an uninteresting form 
of art. Mr. Tulliver, having a vague intention that Tom 
should be put to some business which included the drawing 
out of plans and maps, had complained to Mr.BiUe^^^Yi^ix^DA 



150 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

saw him at Mudport, that Tom seemed to be learning nothing 
of that sort ; whereupon that obliging adviser had suggested 
that Tom should have drawing-lessons. Mr. Tulliver must not 
mind paying extra for drawing: let Tom be made a good 
draughtsman, and he would be able to turn his pencil to any 
purpose. So it was ordered that Tom should have drawing- 
lessons ; and whom should Mr. Stelling have selected as a mas- 
ter if not Mr. Goodrich, who was considered quite at the head 
of his profession within a circuit of twelve miles -round King's 
Lorton ? By which means Tom learned to make an extreme- 
ly fine point to his pencil, and to represent landscape with a 
" broad generality," which, doubtless from a narrow tendency 
in his mind to details, he thought extremely dull. 

All this, you remember, happened in those dark ages when 
there were no schools of design — before schoolmasters were 
invariably men of unscrupulous integrity, and before the cler- 
gy were all men of enlarged minds and varied culture. In 
those less-favored days, it is no fable that there were other 
clergymen besides Mr. Stelling who had narrow intellects and 
large wants, and whose income, by a logical confusion to which 
Fortune, being a female as well as blindfold, is peculiarly liable, 
was proportioned, not to their wants, but to their intellect — 
with which income has clearly no inherent relation. The prob- 
lem these gentlemen had to solve was to readjust the propor- 
tion between their wants and their income ; and since wants 
are not easily starved to death, the simpler method appeared 
to be — ^to raise their income. There was but one way of do- 
ing this : any of those low callings in which men were obliged 
to do good work at a low price were forbidden to clergymen : 
was it their fault that their only resource was to turn out very 
poor work at a high price ? Besides, how should Mr. Stelling 
be expected to know that education was a delicate and difficult 
business, any more than an animal endowed with a power of 
boring a hole through a rock should be expected to have wide 
views of excavation ? Mr. Stelling's facidties had been early 
trained to boring in a straight line, and he had no faculty to 
spare; But among Tom's contemporaries, whose fathers cast 
their sons on clerical instruction to find them ignorant after 
many days, there were many far less lucky than Tom Tulliver. 
Education was almost entirely a matter of luck — usually of ill 
luck — ^in those distant days. The state of mind in which you 
take a billiard-cue or a dice-box in your hand is one of sober 
certainty compared with that of old-fashidned fathers, like Mr. 
Tulliver, when they selected a school or a tutor for their sons. 
Excellent men, who had been forced all their lives to spell on 
an im/)romptu-phonetio system, and having carried on a suo- 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 151 

cessfbl business in spite of this disadvantage, had acquired 
money enough to give their sons a better start in Ufe than 
they had had themselves, must necessarily take their chance 
as to the conscience and the competence of the schoolmaster 
whose circular fell in their way, and appeared to promise so 
much more than they would ever have thought of asking for, 
including the return of linen, fork, and spoon. It was happy 
for ^em if some ambitious draper of their acquaintance had 
not brought up his son to the Church, and if that young gen- 
tleman, at the age of four-and-twenty, had not closed his col- 
lege dissipations by an imprudent marriage : otherwise these 
innocent fathers, desirous of doing the best by their offspring, 
could only escape the draper's son by happening to be on the 
foundation of a grammar-school as yet unvisited bv commis- 
sioners, where two or three boys could have, all to tnemselves, 
the advantages of a large and lofby building, together with a 
head-master, toothless, dim-eyed, and deaf, whose erudite indis- 
tinctness and inattention were engrossed by them at the rate 
of three hundred pounds a head — a ripe scholar, doubtless, 
when first appointed ; but all ripeness beneath the sun has a 
further stage less esteemed in the market. 

Tom Tmliver, then, compared with many other British 
youths of his time who have since had to scramble through 
life with some fragments of more or less relevant knowledge, 
and a great deal of strictly relevant ignorance, was not so very 
unlucky. Mr. Stelling was a broad-chested, healthy man, with 
the bearing of a genUeman, a conviction that a growing boy 
required a sufficiency of beef, and a certain hearty kindness in 
him that made him like to see Tom looking well and enjoying 
his dinn'er ; not a man of refined conscience, or with any deep 
sense of the infinite issues belonging to every-day duties ; not 
quite competent to his high offices ; but incompetent gentle- 
men must live, and without private fortune it is difficult to see 
how they could all live genteelly if they had nothing to do with 
education or government. Besides, it was the fault of Tom's 
mental constitution that his faculties could not be nourished 
on the sort of knowledge Mr. Stelling had to communicate. 
A boy bom with a deficient power of apprehending signs and 
abstractions must suffer the penalty of his congenital deficien- 
cy, just as if he had been bom with one leg shorter than the 
other. A method of education sanctioned by the long prac- 
tice of our venerable ancestors was not to give way before the 
exceptional dullness of a boy who was merely living at the 
time then present. And Mr. Stelling was convinced that a 
boy so stupid at signs and abstractions must be stupid at every 
thmg else» even if that reverend gentleman could have taught 



152 THE HILL OX THE FL08S. 

him every thing else. It was the practice of our venerable 
ancestors to apply that ingenious instrument the thumb-screw, 
and to tighten and tighten it in order to elicit nonexistent 
facts : they had a fixed opinion to begin with, that the facts 
were existent, and what had they to do but to tighten the 
thumb-screw ? In like manner, Mr. Stelling bad a fixed opin- 
ion that all boys with any capacity could learn what it was .the 
only regular thing to teach : if they were slow the thumb-screw 
must be tightened — the exercises must be insisted on with in- 
creased severity, and a page of Virgil be awarded as a penalty, 
to encourage and stimulate a too bnguid inclination to Latm 
verse. 

Nevertheless, the thumb-screw was relaxed a little during 
this second half year. Philip was so advanced in his studies, 
and so apt, that Mr. Stelling could obtain cre^t by his facility, 
which required little help, much more easily than by .the 
troublesome process of overcoming Tom's dullness. Gentle- 
men with broad chests and ambitious intentions do sometimes 
disappoint their friends by failing to carry the world before 
them. Perhaps it is that high achievements demand some 
other imusual qualification besides an unusual desire for high 
prizes ; perhaps it is that these stalwart gentlemen are rather 
mdolent, their divince particulum auroB being obstructed from 
soaring by a too hearty appetite. Some reason or other there 
was why Mr. Stelling dejferred the execution of many spirited 
projects — why he did not begin the editing of his Greek play, 
or any other work of scholarship, in his leisure hours, but, after 
turning the key of his private study with much resolution, sat 
down to one of Theodore Hook's novels. Tom was gradually 
allowed to shuffle through his lessons with less rigor, and, 
having Philip to help him, he was able to make some show of 
having applied his mind in a confused and blundering way, 
without being cross-examined into a betrayal that his mind 
had been entirely neutral in the matter. He thought school 
much more bearable under this modification of circumstances ; 
and he went on contentedly enough, picking up a promiscuous 
education chiefly from things that were not intended as educa- 
tion at all. Wbat was understood to be his education was 
simply the practice of reading, writing, and spelling, carried 
on by an elaborate appliance of unintelligible ideas, and by 
much failure in the erort to learn by rote. 

Nevertheless, there was a visible improvement in Tom un- 
der this training ; perhaps because he was not a boy in the 
abstract, existing solely to illustrate the evils of a mistaken 
education, but a boy made of flesh and blood, with dispositions 
not entirely at the mercy of circumstances. 

Tliere was a great improvement in his bearing, for example. 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 153 

and some credit on this score was dne to Mr. Poulter, the vil- 
lage schoolmaster, who, being an old Peninsular soldier, was 
employed to drill Tom — a source of high mutual pleasure. 
Mr. Poulter, who was understood by 3ie company at the 
Black Swan to have once struck terror into the hearts of the 
French, was no longer personally formidable. He had rather 
a shrunken appearance, and was tremulous in the mornings, 
not from age, but from the extreme perversity of the King's 
Lorton boys, which nothing but gin could enable him to sus- 
tain with any firmness. Still, he carried himself with martial 
erectness, had his clothes scrupulously brushed, and his trow- 
sers tightly strapped ; and on the Wednesday and Saturday 
afternoons, when he came to Tom, he was always inspired 
with gin and old memories, which gave him an exceptionally 
spirited air, as of a superannuated charger who hears the drum. 
The drilling-lessons were always protracted by episodes of war- 
like narrative, much more interesting to Tqpi than Philip's 
stories out of the Iliad ; for there were no cannon in the 
Iliad^ and, besides, Tom had felt some disgust on learning that 
Hector and Achilles might possibly never have existed. But 
the Duke of Wellington was really alive, and Bony had not 
been long dead ; therefore Mr. Poulter's reminiscences of the 
Peninsular War were removed from all suspicion of being 
mythical. , Mr. Poulter, it appeared, had been a conspicuous 
figure at Talavera, and had contributed not a little to the pe- 
culiar terror with which his regiment of infantry was regarded 
by the enemy. On afternoons, when his memory was more 
stimulated than usual, he remembered that the Duke of Wel- 
lington had (in strict privacy, lest jealousies should be awak- 
ened) expressed his esteem for that fine fellow Poulter. The 
very surgeon who attended him in the hospital after he had 
received his gun-shot wound had been profoundly impressed 
with the superiority of Mr. Poulter's flesh : no other flesh 
would have healed in any thing like the same time. On less 
personal matters connected with the important warfare in 
which he had been engaged, Mr. Poulter was more reticent, 
only taking care not to give the weight of his authority to any 
loose notions concerning military history. Any one who pre- 
tended to a knowledge of what occurred at the siege of Bada- 
jos was especially an object of silent pity to Mr. Poulter ; he 
wished that pratmg person had been run down, and had the 
breath trampled out of him at the first go off, as he himself 
had; he might tjJk about the siege of Badajos theni Tom 
did not escape irritating his drilling-master occasionally by his 
curiosity concerning other military matters than Mr. Poulter's 
personal experience. 

62 



154 THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

" And Grenend Wolfe, Mr. Poulter — ^wasn't he a wonderful 
fighter?^' said Tom, who held the notion that all the martial 
heroes commemorated on the publio-hoose signs were engaged 
in the war with Bony. 

" Not at all I" said Mr. Poulter, contemptuously. " Noth- 
ing o' the sort ! . . . Heads up !" he added, in a tone of stem 
command, wMch delighted Tom, and made him feel as if he 
were a regiment in his own person. 

" No, no I" Mr. Poulter would continue, on coming to a 
pause in his discipline. ^^ They'd better not talk to me about 
General Wolfe. He did nothing but die of his wound ; that's 
a poor haction, I consider. Any other man 'ud have died o' 

the wounds Pve had One of my sword-cuts *ud ha' killed 

a fellow Uke General Wolfe." 

" Mr. Poulter," Tom would say, at any allusion to the sword, 
"I wish you'd bring your sword and do the sword-exercise!'* 

For a long while Mr. Poulter only shook his head in a sig- 
nificant manner at this request, and smiled patronizingly, as 
Jupiter may have done when Semele urged her too ambitious 
request. But one afternoon, when a sudden shower of heavy 
rain had detained Mr. Poulter twenty minutes longer than 
usual at the Black Swan, the Sword was broughtr— just for Tom 
to look at. 

" And this is the real sword you fought with in all the bat- 
tles, Mr. Poulter ?" said Tom, handling Sie hilt. " Has it ever 
cut a Frenchman's head off?" 

" Head off? Ah I and would, if he'd had three heads.'* 

" But you had a gun and bayonet besides ?" said Tom. " JT 
should like the gun and bayonet best, because you could shoot 
'em first and spear 'em after. Bang I Ps-s-s-s I" Tom gave 
the requisite pantomime to indicate the double enjoyment of 
pulling the trigger and thrusting the spear. 

" Ah I but the sword's the thing when you come to close 
fighting," said Mr. Poulter, involuntarily falling in with Tom's 
enthusiasm, and drawing the sword so suddenly that Tom 
leaped back with much agility. 

" Oh but, Mr. Poulter, if you're going to do the exercise," 
said Tom, a little conscious that he had not stood his ground 
as became an Englishman, "let me go and cjJl Philip. He'll 
like to see you, you know." 

" What I the humpbacked lad ?" said Mr. Poulter, contempt- 
uously. " What's the use of his looking on ?" 

" Oh, but he knows a great deal about fighting," said Tom; 
" and how they used to fight with bows and arrows, and bat- 
tle-axes." 

"Let him come, then. PU show him something different 



THB MnX ON THB FLOSS. 155 

from his bows and arrows," said Mr. Poulter, congbing, and 
drawing himself up, while he gave a little preliminary play to 
his wrist. 

Tom ran in to Philip, who was enjoying his afternoon's holi- 
day at the piano in tfie drawing-room, picking out tunes for 
hmiself and singing them. He was supremely happy, perched 
like an amorphous bundle on the high stool, with ms head 
thrown back, his eyes fixed on the opposite cornice, and his 
lips wide open, sending forth, with all his might, impromptu 
syllables to a tune of Arne's, which had hit his fancy. 

" Come, Philip," said Tom, bursting in ; " don't stay roaring 
^la la' there— come and see old Poulter do his sword-exercise 
in the carriage-house !" 

The jar of this interruption — ^the discord of Tom's tones 
coming across the notes to which Philip was vibrating in soul 
and body, would have been enough to unhinge his temper, 
even if tnere had been no question of Poulter the drilluig-mas- 
ter ; and Tom, in the hurry of seizing something to say to pre- 
vent Mr. Poulter from thinking he was afraid of the sword 
when he sprang away from it, had alighted on this proposition 
to fetch PniHp, though he knew well enough that Phihp hated 
to hear him mention his drilling-lessons. Tom would never 
have done so inconsiderate a thing except under the severe 
stress of his personal pride. 

Philip shuddered visibly as he paused from his music. Then 
tnming red, he said, with violent passion, 

"Get away, you lumbering idiot! Don't come bellowing 
at me ; you're not fit to speak to anv thing but a cart-horse 1" 

It was not the first time Philip had been made angry by 
him, but Tom never before had been assailed with verbal mis- 
siles that he understood so well. 

" Fm fit to speak to something better than you, you poor- 
spirited imp !" said Tom, lighting up immediately at Philip's 
fire. "You know I won't hit you, because you're no better 
than a girl. But Pm an honest man's son, and your father's a 
rogne — every body says so !" 

Tom flung out of the room, and slammed the door after him, 
made strangely heedless bv his anger ; for to slain doors with- 
in the hearmg of Mrs. Stelling, who was probably not far off, 
was an offense only to be wiped out by twenty lines of Virgil. 
In fiu^t, that lady did presently descend from her room, in 
doable wonder at the noise and the subsequent cessation of 
Philip's music. She found him sitting in a heap on the has- 
sock, and crying bitterly. 

^ What's the matter, Wakem ? What was that noise abont? 
Who dammed the door ?" 



156 THB MILL ON THS FLOSS. 

Philip looked up, and hastily dried his eyes. ^^ It was Tol- 
liver who came in .... to ask me to go out with him.'' 

"And what are you in trouble about?" said Mrs. Stelling. 

Philip was not her favorite of the two pupils ; he was less 
obliging than Tom, who was made useful in many ways. Still 
his mther paid more than Mr. Tulliver did, and she meant him 
to feel that she behaved exceedingly well to him. Philip, how- 
ever, met her advances toward a good understanding very 
much as a caressed mollusc meets an invitation to show him- 
self out of his shell.* Mrs. Stelling was not a loving, tender- 
hearted woman ; she was a woman whose skirt sat well, who 
adjusted her waist and patted her curls with a preoccupied air 
when she inquired after your welfare. These things, doubt- 
less, represent a great social power, but it is not the power of 
love — ^and no other power could win Philip from his personal 
reserve. 

He said, in answer to her question, " My toothache came on, 
and made me hysterical again." 

This had been the fact once, and Philip was glad of the rec- 
ollection — ^it was like an inspiration to enable him to excuse 
his crying. He had to accept eau de Cologne, and to refuse 
creosote in consequence ; but that was easy. 

Meanwhile Tom, who had for the first tune sent a poisoned 
arrow into Philip's heart, had returned to the carriage-house, 
where he found Mr. Poulter, with a fixed and earnest eye, 
wasting the perfections of his sword-exercise on probably ob- 
servant but inappreciative rats. But Mr. Poulter was a host 
in himself; that is to say, he admired himself more than a 
whole army of spectators could have admired him. He took 
no notice of Tom's return, being too entirely absorbed in the 
cut and thrust — the solemn one, two, three, four ; and Totu, 
not without a slight feeling of alarm at Mr. Poulter's fixed eye 
and hungry-lookmg sword, which seemed impatient for some- 
thing else to cut besides the air, admired the performance from 
as great a distance as possible. It was not until Mr. Poulter 
paused and wiped the perspiration from his forehead that Tom 
felt the full charm of the sword-exercise, and wished it to be 
repeated. 

" Mr. Poulter," said Tom, when the sword was being finally 
sheathed, " I wish you'd lend me your sword a Kttle while to 
keep." 

" No, no, young gentleman," said Mr. Poulter, shaking his 
head decidedly, " you might do yourself some mischief with it." 

" No, I'm sure I wouldn't — ^I'm sure I'd take care and not 
hurt myself. I shouldn't take it out of the sheath mudi, bat I 
could ground arms with it, and all that." 



THB MILL ON THE FLCN3S. 157 

** No, no, it won't do, I tell you ; it won't do," said Mr. 
Poulter, preparing to depart. " What 'nd Mr. Stelling say to 

me?" 

" Oh, I say, do, Mr, Poulter! I'd give you my five-shilling 
piece if you'd let me keep the sword a week. Look here I" 
said Tom, reaching out the attractively large round of silver. 
The young dog calculated the effect as well as if he had been 
a philosopher. 

" Well," said Mr. Poulter, with still deeper gravity, " you 
most keep it out of sight, you know." 

" Oh yes, I'll keep it under the bed," said Tom, eagerly, " or 
else at the bottom of my large box." 

" And let me see, now, whether you can draw it out of the 
sheath without hurting yourself." 

That process having been gone through more than once, 
Mr. PoiJtter felt that he had acted with scrupulous conscien- 
tiousness, and said, " Well, now. Master Tulliver, if I take the 
crown-piece, it is to make sure as you'll do no mischief with the 
Bword." 

" Oh no, indeed, Mr. Poulter," said Tom, delightedly hand- 
ing him the crown-piece, and grasping the sword, which, he 
thought, mi^ht have been lighter with advantage. 

" But if Mr. Stelling catches you carrying it in," said Mr. 
Poulter, pocketing the crown-piece provisioniS&y while he raised 
tMa new doubt. 

" Oh, he always keeps in his np-stairs study on Saturday 
afternoons," said Tom, who disliked any thing sneaking, but 
was not. disinclined to a little stratagem in a worthy cause. 
So he carried off the sword in triumph, mixed with dread — 
dread that he jnight encounter Mr. or Mrs. Stelling — ^to his 
bed-room, where, after some consideration, he hid it in the 
closet behind some hanging clothes. That night he fell asleep 
in the thought that he would astonish Maggie with it when 
she came — tie it round his waist with his red comforter, and 
make her believe that the sword was his own, and that he was 
going to be a soldier. There was nobody but Maggie who 
woaid be silly enough to believe him, or whom he dared allow 
to know that he had a sword ; and Maggie was really coming 
next week to see Tom, before she went to a boarding-school 
with Lucy. 

If you think a lad of thirteen would not have been so child- 
ish, you must be an exceptionally wise man, who, although you 
are devoted to a civil calling, requiring you to look bland 
rather than formidable, yet never, smce you had a beard, threw 
TOurBelf into a martial attitude, and frowned before the look- 
ing-glass. It is doubtful whether our soldiers ^o\M.\^\&2»Dp' 



158 THE MILL OK THE FLOSS. 

tained if there were not pacific people at home who like to 
fancy themselves soldiers. War, like other dramatic spectacles, 
might possibly cease for want of a " pubhc." 



CHAPTER V. 

Maggie's second visit. 



This last breach between the two lads was not readily 
mended, and for some time they spoke to each other no more 
than was necessary. Their natmtJ antipathy of temperament 
made resentment an easy passage to hatred, and in Philip the 
transition seemed to hav^^egun^ there wasno maUgnity Si his 
disposition, but there was a susceptibility that made him pecul- 
iarly liable to a strong sense of repulsion. The ox — ^we may 
venture to assert it on the authority of a great classic — ^is not 
given to use his teeth as an instrument of attack ; and Tom 
was an excellent bovine lad, who ran at questionable objects in 
a truly ingenuous bovine manner ; but he had blundered on 
Philip's tenderest point, and had caused him as much acute 
pain as if he had studied the means with the nicest precision 
and the most envenomed spite. Tom saw no reason why they 
should not make up this quarrel as they had done many others, 
by behaving as if nothing had happened ; for though he had 
never before said to Philip that his father was a rogue, this 
idea had so habitually made part of his feeUng as to the rela- 
tion between himself and his dubious schoolfellow, whom he 
could neither like nor dislike, that the mere utterance did not 
make such an epoch to him as it did to Philip. • And he had a 
right to say so, when Philip hectored over him^ and called him 
names. But, perceiving that his first advances toward amity 
were not met, he relapsed into his least favorable disposition 
toward Philip, and resolved never to appeal to him either about 
drawiQg or exercises again. They were only so far civil to 
each other as was necessary to prevent their state offend from 
being observed by Mr. SteUing, who would have "put down" 
such nonsense with great vigor. 

When Maggie came, however, she could not help looking 
with growing interest at the new schoolfellow, although he 
was the son of that wicked Lawyer Wakem, who made her 
father so angry. She had arrived in the middle of school-hours, 
and had sat by while Philip went through his lessons with Mr. 
Stelling. Tom, some weeks ago, had sent her word that Philip 
knew no end of stories — ^not stupid stories like hers ; and she 
was convinced now, from her own observation, that he must 



THE MHI. ON THE FL06B. 150 

/ cdever ; she hoped he wonld think her rather clever too, 
Alie came to talk to him. Maggie, moreover, had rather 
tBrness for deformed things : she preferred the wry-neck- \ 
Abs, because it seemed to her that the lambs wMcn were \ 
strong and well made wouldn't mind so much about be- 
^tted ; and she was especially fond of petting objects that 
Id think it very delight^ to be petted by her. She loved 
. very dearly, but she often wished that he cared more about 
oving him. 
**I think Philip Wakem seems a nice boy, Tom,** she said, 
ivhen they went out of the study together into the garden, to 
pass the mterval before dinner. *^ He couldn't choose his fa- 
ther, you know ; and I've read of very bad men who had good 
sons, as well as good parents who had bad children. And if 
Philip is good, I think we ought to be the more sorry for him 
because Ms father is not a good man. You like him, don't 
you?" 

" Oh, he's a queer fellow," said Tom, curtly, " and he's as 
sulky as he can be with me, because I told him his father was 
a rogue. And Fd a right to tell him so, for it was true ; and 
he began it, with calling me names. But you stop here by 
yourself a bit, Magsie, w^ you? I've got something I want 
to do up stairs." 

"Can't I go too?" said Maggie, who, in this first day of 
meeting again, loved Tom's shsdow. 

" No, it's something I'll tell you about by-and-by — ^not yet,'* 
said Tom, skipping away. 

In the afternoon the boys were at their books in the study, 
preparing the morrow's lessons, that they might have a hoU- 
day in the evening in honor of Maggie's arrival. Tom was 
hanging over his Latin grammar, moving his lips inaudibly 
like a strict but impatient Catholic repeating his tale of pater- 
nosters ; and Philip, at the other end of the room, was busy 
with two volumes, with a look of contented diligence that ex- 
cited Maggie's curiosity ; he did not look at all as if he were 
learning a lesson. She sat on a low stool at nearly a right 
angle with the two boys, watching first one and then the other; 
and Philip, looking off his book once toward the fireplace, 
caught the pair of questioning dark eyes fixed upon him. He 
thought this sister of Tulliver's seemed a nice little thing, quite 
unlike her brother ; he wished he had a little sister. What 
was it, he wondered, that made Maggie's dark eyes remind 
Jiim of the stories about princesses being turned into animals? 
I think it was that her eyes were full of unsatisfied in- 
telligence, and unsatisfied, beseeching affection. 
M J g3y^ Magsie," said Tom at last, shutting hi& 'bc^V& «cAl 



160 THB MILL ON THB FLOSS. 

putting them away with the energy and decision of a perfect 
master in the art of leaving of^ ^Tve done my lessons now. 
Come up stairs with me." 

" What is it ?" said Maggie, when they were outside the 
door, a slight suspicion crossing her mind as she remembered 
Tom's preliminary visit up stairs. " It isn't a trick you're go- 
ing to play me now ?" 

" No, no, Maggie," said Tom, in his most coaxing tone, "it's 
something you'U like e^er «(?." 

He put his arm round her neck, and she put hers round his 
waist, and, twined together in this way, they went up stairs. 

" I say, Magsie, you must not tell any body, you knpw," said 
Tom, " else I shall get fifty lines." 

" Is it alive ?" said Maggie, whose imagination had settled 
for the moment on the idea that Tom kept a ferret clandes- 
tinely. 

" Oh, I sha'n't tell you," said he. " Now you go into that 
comer and hide your face, while I reach it out," he added, as 
he locked the bedroom door behind them. " I'll tell you when 
to turn round. You mustn't squeal out, you know." 

^' Oh, but if you frighten me, I shall," said Maggie, begin- 
ning to look rather serious. 

" You won't be frightened, you silly thing," said Tom. "Gk) 
and hide your face, and mind you don't peep." 

" Of course I sha'n't peep," said Maggie, disdainfully ; and 
she buried her face in the piUow like a person of strict honor. 

But Tom looked round warily as he walked to the closet ; 
then he stepped into the narrow space, and almost closed the 
door. Maggie kept her face buried without the aid of prin- 
ciple, for in that dream-suggestive attitude she had soon for- 
gotten where she was, and her thoughts were busy with the 
poor deformed boy, who was so clever, when Tom called out, 
" Now, then, Magsie !" 

Nothing but long meditation and preconcerted arrangement 
of effects could have enabled Tom to present so striking a fig- 
ure as he did to Maggie when she looked up. Dissatisfied 
with the pacific aspect of a face which had no more than the 
faintest hint of flaxen eyebrow, together with a pair of amiable 
blue-gray eyes and round pink cheeks that refused to look 
formidable, let him frown as he would before the looking-glass 
— (Philip had once told him of a man who had a horse-shoe 
frown, and Tom had tried with all his frowning-might to make 
a horse-shoe on his forehead) — ^he had had recourse to that 
unfailing source of the terrible, burnt cork, and had made himr 
self a pair of black eyebrows that met in a satisfiM^tory man- 
ner over his nose, and were matched by a less carefuUy a^ust* 



THE MILL OK THB FLOSS. . 161 

ed blackDess about the chin. He had wound a red handker- 
chief round his cloth cap to give it the air of a turban, and his 
red comforter across his breast as a scarf — an amount of red 
which, with the tremendous frown on his brow, and the decision 
with which he grasped the sword, as he held it with the point 
resting on the ground, would suffice to convey an approximar 
tive idea of his fierce and bloodthirsty disposition. 

Maggie looked bewildered for a moment, and Tom enjoyed 
that moment keenly ; but in the next, she laughed, clapped her 
hands together, and said, " Oh, Tom, you've made yourself like 
Bluebeard at the show." 

It was clear she had not been struck with the presence of 
the sword — ^it was not unsheathed. Her frivolous mind re- 
quired a more direct appeal to its sense of the terrible, and 
Tom prepared for his master-stroke. Frowning with a double 
amount of intention, if not of corrugation, he (carefully) drew 
the sword from its sheath and pointed it at Maggie. 

" Oh, Tom, please don't," exclaimed Maggie, in a tone of sup- 
pressed dread, shrinking away from him into the opposite cor- 
ner ; ^^ I shaU scream, I'm sure I shall. Oh don't ! 1 wish Fd 
never come up stairs." 

The comers of Tom's mouth showed an inclination to a smile 
of complacency that was immediately checked as inconsistent 
with the severity of a great warrior. Slowly he let down the 
'scabbard on the floor, lest it should make too much noise, and 
then said, sternly, 

** I'm the Duke of Wellington ! March !" stamping forward 
with the right leg a little bent, and the sword still pointing to- 
wiurd Maggie, who, trembling, and with tear-fiUed eyes, got 
upon the bed, as the only means of widening the space oetween 
them. 

Tom, happy in this spectator of his military performances, 
even though the spectator was only Maggie, proceeded, with 
the ntmost exertion of his force, to such an exhibition of the 
cat and thrust as would necessarily be expected of the Duke 
of Wellington. 

** Tom, 1 wiUnot bear it — ^I vsill scream," said Maggie, at the 
first movement of the sword. " You'll hurt yourself; you'll cut 
your head off!" 

**One — two," said Tom, resolutely, though at "two" his 
wrist trembled a little. " Three," came more slowly, and with 
it the sword swung downward, and Maggie gave a loud shriek. 
The sword had fsdlen, with its edge on Tom's foot, and in a 
moment after he had fallen too. Maggie leaped from the bed, 
still dhrieking, and immediately there was a rush of footsteps 
toward die room. Mr. Stelling, from his up-stairs €l\xd^^^^a 



! 



162 THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 

the first to enter. He found both the children on the floor. 
Tom had &inted, and Maggie was shaking him by the collar 
of his jacket, screaming, with wild eyes. She thought he was 
dead, poor child ! and yet she shook him, as if that would bring 
him back to life. In another min)ite she was sobbing with joy 
because Tom had opened his eyes : she couldn't sorrow yet 
that he had hurt his foot — ^it seemed as if all happiness lay in 
his being alive. 



CHAPTER VI. 

A LOVE SCENE. 

Poor Tom bore his severe pain heroically, and was resolute 
in not "telling" of Mr.Poulter more than was unavoidable: 
the five-shilling piece remained a secret even to Maggie. But 
there was a terrible dread weighing on his mind — so terrible 
that he dared not even ask the question which might bring tilie 
fatal "yes" — he dared not ask the surgeon or Mr. Stelling, 
" Shall I be lame, sir ?" He mastered himself so as not to cry 
out at the pain, but when his foot had been dressed, and he was 
left alone with Maggie seated by his bedside, the children sob- 
bed together with their heads laid on the same pillow. Tom 
was thinking of himself walking about on crutches, like the' 
wheelwright's son ; and Maggie, who did not guess what was 
in his mind, sobbed for company. It had not occurred to the 
surgeon or to Mr. Stelling to anticipate this dread in Tom's 
mind, and to reassure him by hopeM words. But Philip 
watched the surgeon out of the house, and waylaid Mr. Stdl- 
ing to ask the very question that Tom had not dared to ask 
for himself. 

"I beg your pardon, sir, but does Mr. Askem say Tullhrer 
will be lame ?" 

" Oh no, oh no," said Mr. Stelling, " not permanently— only 
for a little while." 

" Did he tell Tulliver so, sir, do you think ?" 

" No, nothing was said to him on the subject." 

" Then may I go and tell him, sir ?" 

" Yes, to be sure ; now you mention it, I dare say he majr 
be troubling about that. Go to his bedroom, but be very qm- 
et at present." 

It had been Philip's first thought when he heard of the ac- 
cident — " Will Tulliver be lame ? It will be very hard for him 
if he is"— and Tom's hitherto unforgiven offenses were washr 
ed out by that pity. Philip felt that they were no longer in a 



THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 163 

State of repulsion, but were being drawn into a common cur- 
rent of suffering and sad privation. His imagination did not 
dwell on the outward calamity and its future effect on Tom's 
life, but it made vividly present to him the state of Tom's feel- 
ing : he had only lived fourteen years, but those, years had, 
most of them, been steeped in the sense of a lot irremediably 
bard. 

" Mr. Askem sajrs you'll soon be all right again, Tulliver, did 
you know?" he said, rather timidly, as he stepped gently up 
to Tom's bed. '* I've just been to ask Mr. Stelling, and he 
says you'll walk as well as ever again by-and-by." 

Tom looked up with that momentary stopping of the breath 
which comqs with a sudden joy ; then he gave a long sigh, 
and turned his blue-gray eyes straight on Philip's face, as he 
had not done for a fortnight or more. As for Maggie, this in- 
timation of a possibility she had not thought of before affected 
her as a new trouble ; the bare idea of Tom's being always 
lame overpowered the assurance that such a misfortune was 
not likely to befall him, and she clung to him and cried airesh. 

** Don't be a little silly, Magsie," said Tom, tenderly, feeling 
very brave now. " I shall soon get well." 

" Good-by, Tulliver," said Philip, putting out his small, del- 
icate hand, which Tom clasped immediately with his more sub- 
stantial fingers. 

"I say," said Tom, "ask Mr. Stelling to let you come and 
sit with me sometimes, till I get up again, Wakem — and tell 
me about Robert Bruce, you know." 

After that, Philip spent all his time out of school-hours with 
Tom and Maggie. Tom liked to hear fighting stories as much 
as ever, but he insisted strongly on the fact that those great 
fighters, who did so many wonderful things and came off un- 
hurt, wore excellent armor from head to foot, which made 
fighting easy work, he considered. He should not have hurt 
his foot if he had had an iron shoe on. He listened with great 
interest to a new story of Philip's about a man who had a very 
bad wound in his foot, and cried out so dreadftilly with the 
pain that his friends could bear with him no longer, but put 
him ashore on a desert island, with nothing but some wonder- 
ful poisoned arrows to kill animals with for food. 

" I didn't roar out a bit, you know," Tom said, " and I dare 
say my foot was as bad as his. It's cowardly to roar." 

But Maggie would have it that when any thing hurt you 
very much, it was quite permissible to cry out, and it was 
cmel of people not to bear it. She wanted to know if Philoc- 
tetes haa a sister, and why she didn't go with him on the des- 
ert island and take care of him. 



164 THB MILL ON THB FL088. 

One day, soon after Philip had told this stoiy, he and Mag- 
gie were m the study alone together while Tom's foot was be- 
ing dressed. Philip was at his books, and Maggie, after saun- 
tering idly round the room, not caring to do any thing in par- 
ticular, because she would soon go to Tom again, went and 
leaned on the table near Philip to see what he was doing, for 
they were quite old friends now, and perfectly at home with 
each other. 

" What are you reading about in Greek ?" she said. *' It's 
poetry — ^I can see that, because the lines are so short." 

" It's about Philoctetes — ^the lame man I was telling you of 
yesterday," he answered, resting his head on his hand and 
looking at her, as if he were not at all sorry to be .interrupted. 
Maggie, in her absent way, continued to lean forward, resting 
on her arms and moving her feet about, while her dark eyes 
got more and more fixed and vacant, as if she had quite for- 
gotten Philip and his book. 

" Maggie," said Philip, after a minute or two, still leaning on 
his elbow and looking at her, " if you had had a brother like 
me, do you think you should have loved him as well as Tom ?'* 

Maggie started a little on being roused from her revery, and 
said, " What ?" Philip repeated his question. 

"Oh yes, better," she answered immediately. "No, not 
better, because I don't think I could loye you better than Tom. 
But I should be sorry — so sorry — ^for you." 

Philip colored : he had meant to imply, would she love him 
as well in spite of his deformity, and yet, when she alluded to 
it so plainly, he winced under her pity. Maggie, young as she 
was, felt her mistake. Hitherto she nad instinctively behaved 
as if she were quite unconscious of Philip's defomuty : her own 
keen sensitiveness and experience under family criticism suf- 
ficed to teach her this, as well as if she had been directed by 
the most finished breeding. 

" But you are so very clever, Philip, and you can play and 
sing," she added, quickly. "I wish you were my brother. 
I'm very fond of you. And you would stay at home with me 
when. Tom went out, and you would teach me every thing — 
wouldn't you ? Greek and every thing ?" 

" But you'll go away soon, and go to school, Maggie," said 
Philip, " and then you'll forget all about me, and not care for 
me any more. And then I shall see you when you're grown 
up, and you'll hardly take any notice of me." 

" Oh no, I sha'n't forget you, I'm sure," said Mag^e, shak- 
ing her head very seriously. " I never forget any thing, and 
I think about every body when Fm away from them. I think 
about poor Yap — ^he's got a lump in his throat, and Luke says 



THE MILL ON TUB FLOSS. 165 

he'll die. Only don't you tell Tom, because it will vex him so. 
You never saw Yap : he's a queer little dog ; nobody cares 
about him but Tom and me." 

"Do you. care as much about me as you do about Yap, 
Maggie r" said Philip, smiling rather sadly. 

" Oh yes, I should think so," said Maggie, laughing. 

" Tm very fond of ycm, Maggie ; I shall never forget yow,'* 
said Philip, " and when I'm very unhappy, I shall always think 
of you, and wish I had a sister with dark eyes, just like yours." 

" Why do you like my eyes ?" said Maggie, well pleased. 
She had never heard any one but her father speak of her eyes 
as if they had merit. 

"I don't know," said Philip. "They're not like any other 
eyes. They seem trying to speak — trying to speak kindly. I 
don't like other people to look at me much, but I like you to 
look at me, Maggie." 

" Why, I think you're fonder of me than Tom is," said Mag- 
gie, rather sorrowfully. Then, wondering how she could con- 
vince PhiHp that she could like him just as well, although he 
was crooked, she said, 

" Should you like me to kiss you, as I do Tom ? I will, if 
you like." 

" Yes, very much : nobody Hsses me." 

Maggie put her arm round his neck and kissed him quite 
earnestly. \ 

" There, now," she said, " I shall always remember you, and 
kiss you when I see you again, if it's ever so long. But I'll 
go now, because I think Mr. Askem's done with Tom's foot." 

When their father came the second time, Maggie said to 
him, " Oh father, Philip Wakem is so very good to Tom — he 
is such a clever boy, and I do love him. And you love him 
too, Tom, don't you? Sa^ you love him," she added, en- 
treatingly. . 

Tom colored a little as he looked at his father and said, "I 
sha'n't 4>e friends with him when I leave school, father, but 
we've made it up now, since my foot has been bad, and he's 
tau ght me to play at draughts, and I can beat him." 

"Well, well," said Mr. TuUiver, " if he's good to you, try 
and make him amends, and be good to him. He's a poor 
crooked oreatur, and takes aft'er his dead mother. But don't 
you be getting too thick with him — ^he's got his father's blood 
m him too. Ay, ay, the gray colt may chance to kick like his 
blade sire." 

The jarring natures of the two boys effected'what Mr. Tul- 
liver's admonition alone might have failed to effect : in spite 
of Philip's new loudness, and Tom's answering reg;axd. m \!k&& 



166 THE HILL ON THE FLOSS. 

time of his trouble, they never became dose Mends. When 
Maggie was gone, and when Tom by-and^by began to walk 
about as usum, the friendly warmth that had been kindled by 
pity and gratitude died out by degrees, and left them in their 
old relation to each other. PhiUp was often .peevish and con- 
temptuous ; and Topi's more specific and kindly impressions 
gradually melted into the old background of suspicion and dis- 
like toward him as a queer fellow, a humpback, and the son 
of a rogue. K boys and men are to be welded together in the 
glow of transient feeling, they must be made of metal that 
will mix, else they inevitably fall asunder when the heat dies 
out. 



CHAPTER Vn. 

THE GOLDEN GATES ABE PASSED. 

So Tom went on even to the fifth half year — ^till he was 
turned sixteen — ^at King's Lorton, while Maggie was growing, 
with a rapidity which her aunts considered nighly reprehensi- 
ble, at Miss Firniss's boarding-school in the ancient town of 
Laceham on the Floss, with cousin Lucy for her companion^ 
In her early letters to Tom she had always sent her love to 
Philip, and asked many questions about him, which were an- 
swered by brief sentences about Tom's toothache, and a turf- 
house which he was helping to build in the garden, with other 
items of that kind. She was pained to hear Tom say in the 
holidays that Philip was as queer as ever again, and often cross : 
they were no longer very good friends, she perceived; and 
when she reminded Tom that he ought always to love Philip 
for being so good to him when his foot was bad, he answered, 
^' Well, it isn't my fault : JT don't do any thing to. him." She 
hardly ever saw Philip during the remainder of their school- 
life ; m the Midsummer holidays he was always away at the 
sea-side, and at Christmas she could only meet him at long in- 
tervals in the streets of St. Ogg's. When they did meet, she 
remembered her promise to kiss him, but, as a young lady who 
had been at a boarding-school, she knew now that such a greet- 
ing was out of the question, arid Philip would not expect it. 
The promise was void, like so many other sweet, illusory pronir 
ises of our childhood ; void as promises made in Eden before 
the seasons were divided, and when the starry blossoms ^rew 
side by side with the ripening peach — ^impossible to be fiimlled 
when the golden gates had been passed. 

But when their father was actually engaged in the long- 



THB HILL ON THE FLOSS. 167 

threatened lawsuit, and Wakem, as the agent at once of Piyart 
and Old Hany, was acting against him, even Maggie felt, with 
gome sadness, that they were not likely ever to have any inti- 
macy with Philip again : the very name of Wakem made her 
&ther angry, and she had once heard him say, that if that 
crookbacked son lived to inherit his father's ill-gotten gains, 
there would be a curse upon him. ^' Have as Httle to do with 
him at school as you can, my lad," he said to Tom ; and the 
conmiand was obeyed the more easily because Mr. Stelling by 
this time had two additional pupils ; for, though this gentle- 
man's rise in the world was not of that meteor-like rapidity 
which the admirers of his extemporaneous eloquence had ex- 
pected for a preacher whose voice demanded so wide a sphere, 
he had yet enough of growing prosperity to enable him to in- 
crease his expenditure in continued disproportion to his in- 
come. 

As for Tom's school course, it went on with mill-like monot- 
ony, his mind continuing to move with a slow, half-stifled pulse 
in a medium of uninteresting or unintelligible ideas. But each 
vacation he brought home larger and larger drawings with the 
satiny rendering of landscape, and water-colors in vivid greens, 
together with manu8cri{)t books full of exercises and problems, 
in which the handwriting was all the finer because he gave his 
whole mind to it. Each vacation he brought home a new book 
Off two, indicating his progress through different stages of his- 
tory. Christian doctrine, and Latin literature; and that pas- 
sage was not entirely without result, besides the possession of 
the books. Tom's ear and tongue had become accustomed to 
a great many words and phrases which are understood to be 
signs of an educatedcondition ; and though he had never real- 
ly applied^EiB^mihd to aiiy one of his lessons, the lessons had 
left a deposit of vague, fragmentary, ineficctual notions. Mr. 
Tnlliver, seeing si^s of acquirement beyond the reach of his 
own criticism, thought it was probably all right with Tom's 
education : he observed, indeed, that there were no maps, and 
not enough " summing ;" but he made no formal complaint to 
Mr. Stelling. It was a puzzling business, this schooling ; and 
if he took Tom away, where could he send him with better 
effect? 

By the time Tom had reached his last quarter at King's Lor- 
ton, the years had made striking changes in him since the day 
we saw nim returning from Mr. Jacobs' academy. He was a 
tall youth now, carrymg himself without the least awkward- 
ness, and speaking without more shyness than was a becoming 
symptom of blended diffidence and pride : he wore his tail-coat 
and nis stand-up collars, and watched the down on hia li^ ^"^iV^Xi 



168 rka hill on thb floss. 

eager impatience, looking eyeir day at his virgin razor, with 
which he had provided himself in the last hoHdays. Philip 
had already left— at the autumn quarter — ^that he might go to 
the south for the winter, for the sake of his health ; and this 
change helped to give Tom the unsettled, exultant feeling tiiat 
usually belongs to the last months before leaving school. This 
quarter, too, there was some hope of his father's lawsuit being 
decided : that made the prospect of home more entirely pleas- 
urable ; for Tom, who had gathered his view of the case from 
his father's conversation, had no doubt that Fivart would be 
beaten. 

Tom had not heard any thing from home for some weeks — 
a fact which did not surprise him, for his father and mother 
were not apt to manifest their affection in unnecessary letters 
— when, to his great surprise, on the morning of a dark cold 
day near the end of Npvem|)er, he was told, soon ^er en- 
tering the study at nine o clock, that his sister was in tiie 
drawmg-room. It was Mrs. Stelling who had come into the 
study to tell him, and she left him to enter the drawing-room 
alone. 

Maggie, too, was tall now, with braided and coiled hair: 
she was almost as tall as Tom, though she was only thirteen ; 
and she really looked older than he lid at that moment. She 
had thrown off her bonnet, her heavy braids were pushed back 
from her forehead, as if it would not bear that extra load, and 
her young face had a strangely worn look as her eyes turned 
anxiously toward the door. When Tom entered she did not 
speak, but only went up to him, put her arms round his neck, 
and kissed him earnestly. He was used to various moods of 
hers, and felt no alarm at the unusual seriousness of her greet- 
ing. 

" Why, how is it you're come so early this cold morning, 
Maggie ? Did you come in the gig ?" said Tom, as she back- 
ed toward the sofa, and drew him to her side. 

" No, I came by the coach. I've walked from the turn- 
pike." 

" But how is it you're not at school ? The holidays have 
not begun yet ?" 

" Father wanted me at home," said Maggie, with a slight 
trembling of the lip. " I came home three or four days ago." 

" Isn't my father well ?" said Tom, rather anxiously. 

"Not cjuite," said Maggie. "He's very unhappy, Tom. 
The lawsuit is ended, and I came to tell you, because I thought 
it would be better for you to know it before you came home, 
and I didn't like only to send you a letter." 

"My father hasn't lost ?" said Tom, hastily, springing from 



THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 169 

the sofa, and standing before Maggie with his hands suddenly 
thrust in his pockets. 

"Yes, dear Tom," said Maggie, looking up at him with 
trembling. 

Tom was silent a minute or two, with his eyes fixed on the 
floor. Then he said, 

" My father will have to pay a good deal of money, then?'* 

" Yes," said Maggie, rather faintly. 

"Well, it can't be helped," said Tom, bravely, not transla- 
ting the loss of a large sum of money into any tangible results. 
" But my father's very much vexed, I dare say ?" he added, 
looking at Maggie, and thinking that her agitated face was 
only part of her girlish way of taking things. 

*' Yes," said Maggie, again feintly. Then, urged to fuller 
speech by Tom's freedom from apprehension, she said loudly 
and rapidly, as if the words would burst from her, " Oh, Tom, 
he will lose the mill, and the land, and every thing ; he will 
have nothing left." 

Tom's eyes flashed out one look of surprise at her before he 
turned pale and trembled visibly. He said nothing, but sat 
down on the sofa again, looking vaguely out of the opposite 
window. 

Anxiety about the future had never entered Tom's mind. 
His father had always ridden a good horse, and had the cheer- 
ful, confident air of a man who has plenty of property to fall 
back upon. Tom had never dreamed that his father would 
" fail ;" that was a form of misfortune which he had always 
heard spoken of as a deep disgrace, and disgrace was an idea 
that he could not associate with any of his relations, least of 
all with his father. A proud sense of family respectability was 
part of the very air Tom had been born and brought up in. 
He knew there were people in St. Ogg's who made a show 
without money to support it, and he had always heard such 
people spoken of by his own friends with contempt and repro- 
bation. He had a strong belief, which was a life-long habit, 
and required no definite evidence to rest on, that his father 
could spend a great deal of money if he chose ; and since his 
education at Mr. Stelling's had given him a more expensive 
view of life, he had often thought that when he got older he 
would make a figure in the world, with his horse, and dogs, 
and saddle, and other accoutrements of a fine young man, and 
show himself equal to any of his contemporaries at St. Ogg's, 
who might consider themselves a grade above him in society, 
because their fathers were professional men, or had large oil- 
mills. As to the prognostics and head-shaking of his aunts 
and imdefli they had never produced the least effect oiv Vvvoi^ 

H 



170 THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

except to make him think that amits and uncles were disagree- 
able society : he had heard them find fault in much the same 
way as long as he could remember. His father knew better 
than they did. 

The down had come on Tom's lip, yet his thoughts and ex- 
pectations had been hitherto only the reproduction, in changed 
forms, of the boyish dreams in which he had lived three years 
ago. He was awakened now with a violent shock. 

Maggie was frightened at Tom's pale, trembling silence. 
There was something else to tell him — something worse. She 
threw her arms round him at last, and said, with a half sob, 

" Oh Tom — dear, dear Tom, don't fret too much ; try and 
bear it well." 

Tom turned his cheek passively to meet her entreating kiss- 
es, and there gathered a moisture in his eyes, which he just 
rubbed away with his hand. The action seemed to rouse him, 
for he shook himself and said, " I shall go home with you, Mag- 
gie. Didn't my father say I was to go ?" 

" No, Tom, father didn't wish it," said Maggie, her anxiety 
about his feeling helping her to master her agitation. What 
wotUd he do when she told him all? " But mother wants you 
to come — poor mother! — she cries so. Oh, Tom, it's very 
dreadful at home." 

Maggie's lips grew whiter, and she began to tremble almost 
as Tom had done. The two poor things clung closer to each 
other — ^both trembling — the one at an unshapen fear, the other 
at the image of a terrible certainty. When Maggie spoke, it 
was hardly above a whisper. 

" And . . . and .... poor father . . . ." 

Maggie could not utter it. But the suspense was intolera- 
ble to Tom. A vague idea of going to prison, as a consequence 
of debt, was the shape his fears had begun to take. 

" Where's my father ?" he said, impatiently. " Tell me, 
Maggie." 

" He's at home," said Maggie, finding it easier to reply to 
that question. " But," she added, after a pause, " not him- 
self. . . . He fell off his horse. . . . He has known nobody but 

me ever since He seems to have lost his senses 

Oh, father, father . . . ." 

With these last words Maggie's sobs burst forth with the 
more violence for the previous struggle against them. Tom 
felt that pressure of the heart which forbids tears : he had no 
distinct vision of their troubles as Maggie had, who had been 
at home ; he only felt the crushing weight of what seemed un- 
mitigated misfortune. He tightened his arm almost convuls- 
ively round Maggie as she sobbed, but his face looked rigid and 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. J7l 

tearless — ^his eyes blank — as if a black curtain of doud had 
suddenly fallen on his path. 

But Maggie soon checked herself abruptly : a single thought 
had acted on her like a startling sound. 

" We must set out, Tom — we must not stay — father will 
miss me — we must be at the turnpike at ten to meet the coach." 
She said this with hasty decision, rubbing her eyes, and rising 
to seize her bonnet. 

Tom at once felt the same impulse, and rose too. " Wait a 
minute, Maggie," he said. " I must speak to Mr. Stelling, and 
then we'll go." 

He thought he must go to the study where the pupils were, 
but on his way he met Mr. Stelling, who had heard from his 
wife that Maggie appeared to be in trouble when she asked for 
her brother ; and, now that he thought the brother and sister 
had been alone long enough, was coming to inquire and ofter 
his sympathy. 

" Please, sir, I must go home," Tom said, abruptly, as he met 
Mr. SteUing in the passage. " I must go back with my sister 
directly. My father's lost his lawsuit — he's lost all his prop- 
erty — and he's very ill." 

Mr. SteUing felt like a kind-hearted man ; he foresaw a prob- 
able money loss for himself, but this had no appreciable share 
in his feelmg, while he looked with grave pity at the brother 
and sister for whom youth and sorrow had begun together. 
When he knew how Maggie had come, and how eager she was 
to get home again, he hurried their departure, only whispering 
something to Mrs. Stelling, who had foUowed hma, and who 
immediately left the room. 

Tom and Maggie were standing on the door-step, ready to 
set out, when Mrs. SteUing came with a httle basket, which 
she hung on Maggie's arms, saying, "Do remember to eat 
something on the way, dear." Maggie's heart went out to- 
ward this woman whom she had never liked, and she kissed 
her silently. It was the first sign within the poor chUd of that 
new sense which is the gift of sorrow — ^that susceptibility to 
the bare offices of humanity which raises them mto a bond of 
loving feUowship, as to haggard men among the icebergs the 
mere presence of an ordinary comrade stirs the dcepfburitains 
of affection. 

Mr. Stelling put his hand on Tom's shoulder and said, " God 
bless you, my boy ; let me know how you get on." Then he 
pressed Maggie's hand ; but there were no audible good-bys. 
Tom had so often thought how joyful he should be the day he 
left school '*for good I" And now his school-years seemed 
fike a holiday that had come to an end. 



172 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

The two slight youthful figures soon grew indistinct on 
the distant road — were soon lost behind the projecting hedge- 
row. 

They had gone forth together into their new life of sorrow, 
and they would never more see the sunshine undimmed by re- 
membered cares. Thev had entered the thorny wilderness, 
and the golden gates of their childhood had foreyer closed be- 
hmd them. 



BOOK THIRD. 

THE DOWNFALL. 



CHAPTER I. 

WHAT HAD HAPPENED AT HOME. 

When Mr. Tulliver first knew the fact that the lawsuit was 
decided against him, and that Pivart and Wakem were tri- 
umphant, every one who happened to observe him at the time 
thought that, K)r so confident and hot-tempered a man, he bore 
the blow remarkably well. He thought so himself; he thought 
he was going to show that if Wakem or any body else consid- 
ered him crushed, they would find themselves mistaken. He 
could not refuse to see that the costs of this protracted suit 
would tske more than he possessed to pay them ; but he ap- 
peared to himself to be full of expedients by which he could 
ward off any results but such as were tolerable, and could avoid 
the appearance of breaking down in the world. All the obsti- 
nacy and defiance of his nature, driven out of their old chan- 
nel, found a vent for themselves in the immediate formation of 
?lans by which he would meet his difficulties, and remain Mr. 
'ulliver of Dorlcote Mill in spite of them. There was such a 
rush of projects in his brain, that it was no wonder his face 
was flushed when he came away from his talk with his attor- 
ney, Mr. Gore, and mounted his horse to ride home from Lin- 
dum. There was Furley, who held the mortgage on the land 
— a reasonable fellow, who would see his own interest, Mr. Tul- 
liver was convinced, and who would be glad not only to .pur- 
chase the whole estate, including the mill and homestead, but 
would accept Mr. Tulliver as tenant, and be willing to advance 
money to be repaid with high interest out of the profits of the 
business, which would be made over to him, Mr. Tulliver only 
taking enough barely to maintain himself and his family. Who 
would neglect such a profitable investment? Certainly not 
Furley, for Mr. Tulliver had determined that Furley should 
meet his views with the utmost alacrity ; and there are men 
whoie brains have not yet been dangerously heated by tii^ V^j«iv 



174 THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

of a lawsuit, who are apt to see in their own interests or de- 
sires a motive for other men's actions. There was no douht 
(in the miller's mind) that Furley would do just what was de- 
sirable ; and if he did — why, thiugs would not be so very much 
worse. Mr. TuUiver and his family must live more meagrely 
and humbly, but it would only be till th6 profits of the business 
had paid off Furley's advances, and that might be while Mr. 
Tulliver had still a good many years of life before him. It was 
clear that the costs of the suit could be paid without his being 
obliged to turn out of his old place, and look like a ruined man. 
It was certainly an awkward moment in his affairs. There was 
that suretyship for poor Riley, who had died suddenly last 
April, and left nis friend saddled with a debt of two himdred 
and fifty pounds — a fact which had helped to make Mr. Tulli- 
ver's banking book less pleasant reading than a man might de- 
sire toward Christmas. Well ! he had never been one of those 
poor-spirited sneaks who would refuse to give a helping hand 
to a fellow-traveler in this puzzhng world. The really vexa- 
tious business was the fact that some months ago the creditor 
who had lent him the five hundred pounds to repay Mrs. Glegg 
had become uneasy about his money (set on by Wakem, of 
course), and Mr. Tulliver, still confident that he should gain his 
suit, and finding it eminently inconvenient to raise the said sum 
until that desu*able issue had taken place, had rashly acceded 
to the demand that he should give a bill of sale on his house- 
hold furniture, and some other effects, as"seciifity in lieu of the 
bond. It was all one, he had said to himself; he should soon 
pay off the money, and there was no harm in giving that se- 
curity more than another. But now the consequences of this 
bill of sale occurred to him in a new light, and he remembered 
that the time was close at hand when it would be enforced un- 
less the money were repaid. Two months ago he would have 
declared stoutly that he would never be beholden to his wife's 
friends ; but now he told himself as stoutly that it was nothing 
but right and natural that Bessy should go to the Pullets and 
explain the thing to them : they would hardly let Bessy's juc- 
nitupe be sold, and it might be security to Pullet if he advanced 
the money — ^there would, after all, be no gift or favor in the 
matter. Mr. Tulliver would never have asked for any thing 
from so poor-spirited a fellow for himself, but Bessy might do 
so if she liked. 

It is precisely the proudest and most obstinate men who are 
the most liable to shift their position and contradict themselves 
in this sudden manner : every thing is easier to them than to 
face the simple fact that they have been thoroughly defeated, 
and must begin life anew. And Mr. Tulliver, you peroeive» 



THE HILL ON THB I'LOSS, 175 

though nothing more than a superior miller and maltster, was 
as proud and obstinate as if he had been a very lofcy^^rson- 
age, in whom such dispositions might be a source of that con- 
spicuous, far-echoing tragedy, which sweeps the stage in regal 
robes, and makes the dullest chronicler sublime. The pride 
and obstinacy of millers, and other insignificant people, whom 
you pass unnoticingly on the road every day, have their trag- 
edy too ; but it is of that unwept, hidden sort, that goes on 
from generation to generation, and leaves no record — such trag- 
edy, perhaps, as Ues in the conflicts of young souls, hungry for 
joy, under a lot made suddenly hard to them, under the dreari- 
ness of a home where the morning brings no promise with it, 
and where the un expectant discontent of worn and disappoint- 
ed parents weighs on the children like a damp, thick air, in 
which all the functions of life are depressed ; or such tragedy 
as lies in the slow or sudden death that follows on a bruised 
passion, though it may^be a death that finds only a parish fu- 
neral. There are certain animals to which tenacity of position 
is a law of life — ^they can never flourish again after a single 
wrench ; and there are certain human beings to whom predom- 
inance is a law of Hfe — they can only sustain humiliation so 
long as they can refuse to believe in it, and, in their own con- 
ception, predominate still. 

Mr. Tulliver Was still predominating in his own imagination 
as he approached St. Ogg's, through which he had to pass on 
his way homeward. But what was it that suggested to him, 
as he saw the Laceham coach entering the town, to follow it 
to the coach-office, and get the clerk there to write a letter, 
requiring Maggie to come home the very next day ? Mr. Tul- 
liver^s own hand shook too much under his excitement for him 
to write himself, and he wanted the letter to be given to the 
coachnian to deliver at Miss Fimiss's school in the morning. 
There was a craving which he would not account for to him- 
self to have Maggie near him — without delay — she must come 
back by the coach to-morrow. 

To Mrs. Tulliver, when he got home, he would admit no dif- 
ficulties, and scolded down her burst of grief on hearing that 
the lawsuit was lost by angry assertions that there was noth- 
ing to grieve about. He said nothing to her that night about 
the bill of sale, and the application to Mrs. Pullet, for he had 
kept her in ignorance of the nature of that transaction, and 
had explained the necessity for takuig an inventory of the 
goods as a matter connected with his will. The possession 
of a wife conspicuously one's inferior in intellect is, like other 
high priyfleges, attended with a few inconveniences, and, among 
the rent, with the occasional necessity for udtvg «t\\\»\Xft ^^ssb^ 
tioD. 



176 THE HILL ON THE FLOSS. 

The next day Mr. Tulliver was again on horseback in the 
afternoon on his way to Mr. Gore's office at St. Ogg's. Gore 
was to have seen Furley in the morning, and to have sounded 
him in relation to Mr. Tulliver's afl^irs. But he had not gone 
half way when he met a clerk from Mr. Gore's office, who was 
bringing a letter to Mr. Tulliver. Mr. Gore had been prevent- 
ed by a sudden call of business from waiting at his office to 
see Mr. Tulliver, according to appointment, but would be at 
his office at eleven to-morrow morning, and meanwhile had 
sent some important information by letter. 

" Oh !" said Mr. Tulliver, taking the letter, but not opening 
it. "Then tell Gore I'll see him to-morrow at eleven;" and 
he turned his horse. 

The clerk, struck with Mr. Tulliver's glistening excited 
glance, looked after him for a few moments, and then rode 
away. The reading of a letter was not the affair of an instant 
to Mr. Tulliver ; he took in the sense of a statement very slow- 
ly through the medium of written or even printed characters; 
so he had put the letter in his pocket, thinking he would open 
it in his arm-chair at home. But by-and-by it occurred to hun 
that there might be something in the letter Mrs. Tulliver must 
not know about, and if so, it would be better to keep it out of 
her sight altogether. He stopped his horse, took out the let- 
ter, and read it. It was only a short letter ; the substance was, 
that Mr. Gore had ascertained, on secret but sure authority, 
that Furley had been lately much straitened for money, and 
had parted with his securities — among the rest, the mort gag e 
on Mr. Tulliver's property, which he had transferred to — wk- 
kem. 

In half an hour after this Mr. Tulliver's own wagoner fonnd 
him lying by the road-side insensible, with an open letter near 
him, and his gray horse snuffing uneasily about him. 

When Maggie reached home that evening, in obedience to 
her father's call, he was no longer insensible. About an hour 
before he had become conscious, and after vague, vacj(iit looks 
around him, had muttered S(omething about " a letter," which 
he presently repeated impatiently. At the instance of Mr. 
Turnbull, the medical man, Gore's letter was brought and laid 
on the bed, and the previous impatience seemed to be allayed. 
The stricken man lay for some time with his eyes fixed on the 
letter, as if he were trying to knit up his thoughts by its help. 
But presently a new wave of memory seemed to have ccnne 
and swept the other away ; he turned his eyes from the letter 
to the door, and after looking uneasily, as if striving to see 
something his eyes were too dim for, he said, "iSe little 
wench," 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 177 

He repeated the words impatiently from time to time, ap- 
pearing entirely unconscious of every thing except this one 
importunate want, and giving no sign of knowing his wife or 
any one else ; and poor Mrs. Tulliver, her feeble faculties al- 
most paralyzed by this sudden accumulation of troubles, went 
backward and forward to the gate to see if the Laceham coach 
were coming, though it was not yet time. 

But it came at last, and set down the poor anxious girl, 
no longer the "little wench" except to her father's fond 
memory. 

" Oh mother, what is the matter ?" Maggie said, with pale 
lips, as her mother came toward her crying. She didn't think 
her father was ill, because the letter had come at his dictation 
from the office at St. Ogg's. 

But Mr. Tumbull came now to meet her : a medical man is 
the good angel of the troubled house, and Maggie ran toward 
the kind old friend, whom she remembered as long as she 
could remember any thing, with a trembling, questioning look. 

" Don't alarm yourself* too much, my dear," he said, taking 
her hand. "Your father has had a sudden attack, and has not 
quite recovered his memory. But he has been asking for you, 
and it will do him good to see you. Keep as quiet as you 
can ; take off your things, and come up stairs with me." 

Maggie obeyed, with that terrible beating of the heart which 
makes existence seem only a painful pulsation. The very quiet- 
ness with which Mr. Tumbull spoke had fidghtened her sus- 
ceptible imagination. Her father's eyes were still turned un- 
easily toward the door when she entered and met the strange, 
yearning, helpless look that 'had been seeking her in vam. 
With a sudden flash and movement, he raised himself in the 
bed — she rushed toward him, and clasped him with agonized 
kisses. 

Poor child I it was very early for her to know one of those 
supreme moments in life when all we have hoped or delighted 
in, all we can dread or endure, falls away from our regard as 
insignificant — ^is lost, like a trivial memory, in that simple, 
primitive love which knits us to the beings who have been 
nearest to us in their times of helplessness or of anguish. 

But that flash of recognition had been too great a strain on 
the father's bruised, en^ebled powers. He sank back again 
in renewed insensibility and rigidity, which lasted for many 
hours, and was only broken by a flickering return of conscious- 
ness, in which he took passively every thing that? was given to 
him, and seemed to have a sort of infantine satisfaction in Mag- 
gie's Bear presence — such satisfaction as a baby has when it is 
retmed to the nurse's lap. 

H2 



178 THE MILL ON TH^ FLOSS. 

Mrs. Ttdliver sent for her sisters, and there was much wail- 
ing and lifting up of hands below stairs ; both uncles and aunts 
saw that the ruin of Bessy and her family was as complete as 
they had ever foreboded it, and there was a general family 
sense that a judgment had fallen on Mr. Tulliver, which it 
would be an impiety to counteract by too much kindness. 
But Maggie heard little of this*, scarcely ever leaving her &• 
ther's bedside, where she sat opposite him with her hand on 
his. Mrs. Tulliver wanted to have Tom fetched home, and 
seemed to be thinking more of her boy even than of her hus- 
band ; but the aunts and uncles opposed this. Tom was bet- 
ter at school, since Mr. Turnbull said there was no inmiediate 
danger, he believed. But at the end of the second day, when 
Maggie had become more accustomed to her father's fits of 
insensibility, and to the expectation that he would revive from 
them, the thought of Tom had become urgent with her too; 
and when her mother sat crying at night and saying, "My 

Soor lad .... it's nothing but right he should come home ;" 
[aggie said, " Let me go for him, and tell him, mother : I'll 
go to-morrow morning if father doesn't know me and want 
me. It would be soiiard for Tom to come home and not know 
any thing about it beforehand." 

And the next morning Maggie went, as we have seen. Sit- 
ting on the coach on their way home, the brother and sister 
talked to each otter in sad, interrupted whispers. 

" They say Mr. Wakem has got a mortgage or something 
on the land, Tom," said Maggie. " It was the letter with that 
news in it that made father iU, they think." 




my 

a 

man. Mind you never speak to Philip again." 

*' Oh, Tom I" said Maggie, in a tone of sad remonstrance ; 
but she had no spirit to dispute any thing then, still less to vex 
Tom by opposing him. 



CHAPTER II. 

MES. TXTLLTVEB's TERAPHIM, OR HOUSEHOLD GODS. 

When the coach set down Tom and Maggie, it was five 
hours since he had started from home, and she was thinking 
with some trembling that her father had perhaps missed her, 
and asked for " the little wench" in vam. She thought of no 
other change that might have happened. 



THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 179 

She hurried along the gravel-walk and entered the house be- 
fore Tom ; but in the entrance she was startled by a strong 
Bmell of tobacco. The pai'lor door was ajar — that was where 
the smell came from. It was very strange : could any visitor ' 
be smoking at a time hke this ? Was her mother there ? If 
so, she must be told that Tom was come. Maggie, after this 
pause of surprise, was only in the act of opening the door when 
Tom came up, and they both looked in the parlor together. 
There was a coarse, dingy man, of whose face Tom had some 
vague recollection, sitting in his father's chair, smoking, with 
a jug and glass beside him. 

The truth flashed on Tom's mind in an instant. To " have 
the bailiff in the house," and " to be sold up," were phrases 
which he had been used to, even as a little boy : they were 
part of the disgrace and misery of " failing," of losing all one's 
money, and being ruined — sinking into the condition of poor 
working people. It seemed only natural this should happen 
since his father had lost all his property, and he thought of no 
more special cause for this particular form of misfortune than 
the loss of the lawsuit. But the immediate presence of this 
disgrace was so much keener an experience to Tom than the 
worst form of apprehension, that he felt at this moment as if 
his real trouble had only just begun : it was a touch on the ir- 
ritated nerve compared with its spontaneous dull aching. 

" How do you do, sir ?" said the man, taking the pipe out 
of his mouth, with rough, embarrassed civility. The two young 
startled faces made him a little uncomfortable. 

But Tom turned away hastily without speaking : the sight 
was too hateful. Maggie had not understood the appearance 
of this stranger, as Tom had. She followed him, whispering, 
"Who can it be, Tom? what is the matter?" Then, with a 
sudden undefined dread lest this stranger might have some- 
thing to do with a change in her father, she rushed up stairs, 
checking herself at the bedroom door to throw off her bonnet, 
and enter on tiptoe. All was silent there : her father was ly- 
ing, heedless of every thing around him, with his eyes closed 
as when she had left him. A seiTant was there, but not her 
mother. 

"Where's my mother?" she whispered. The servant did 
not know. 

Maggie hastened out, and said to Tom, " Father is lying 
quiet ; let us go and look for my mother. I wonder wnere 
sne is.'* 

Mrs. Tulliver was not down stairs — ^not in any of the bed- 
rooms. There was but one room below the attic which Maggie 
had Irft unsearched : it was the store-room, whct^VkSt Tc^RfOMesr 



180 THE HILL ON THB FLOSS. 

kept all her linen, and all the precious '' best things," that were 
only unwrapped and brought out on special occasions. Tom, 
preceding Maggie as they returned along the passage, opened 
the door of this room, and immediately said, "Mother!" 

Mrs. TuUiver was seated there with all her laid-up treasures. 
One of the linen-chests was open : the silver teapot was un- 
wrapped from its many folds of paper, and the best china was 
laid out on the top of the closed Imen-chest ; spoons, and skew- 
ers, and ladles were spread in rows on the shelves ; and the 
poor woman was shakmg her head and weeping, with a bitter 
tension of the mouth, over the mark, " Elizabeth Dodson," on 
the comer of some table-cloths she held in her lap. 

She dropped them, and started up as Tom spoke. 

" Oh my boy, my boy P' she said, clasping him round the 
neck. " To think as I should live to see tiis day I We're 
ruined .... every thing's goin^ to be sold up .... to think 
as your father should ha' married me to bnng me to this! 
We've got nothing .... we shall be beggars .... we must 
go to the work-house . . . ." 

She kissed^Hm, then seated herself again, and took another 
table-cloth on her lap, unfolding it a little way to look at the 
pattern, while the children stood by in mute wretchedness, their 
minds quite filled for the moment with the words " beggars'* 
and " work-house." 

" To think o' these cloths as I spun myself," she went on, 
lifting things out and turning them over with an excitement 
all the more strange and piteous because the stout blonde 
woman was usuaUy so passive : if she had been ruffled before, 
it was at the surface merely : " and Job Haxey wove 'em, and 
brought the piece home on his back, as I remember standing 
at the door and seeing him come, before I ever thought o' 
marrying your father 1 And the pattern as I chose myself — 
and bleached so beautiful, and I marked 'em so as nobody ever 
saw such marking — ^they must cut the cloth to get it out, for 
it's a particular stitch. And they're all to be sold — and go into 
strange people's houses, and perhaps be cut with the knives, 
and wore out before I'm dead. You'll never have one of 'iem, 
^7 hoy," she said, looking up at Tom with her eyes full of 
tears, " and I meant 'em for you. I wanted you to have aU o' 
this pattern. Maggie could have had the large check — ^it never 
shows so well when the dishes are on it." 

Tom was touched to the quick, but there was an angry re- 
action immediately. His face flushed as he said, 

"But will my aunts let them be sold, mother? Do they 
know about it? They'll never let your linen go, will they? 
Haven't vou sent to them ?" 



THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 181 

** Yes, I sent Luke directly they'd put the bailies in, and 
your aunt Pullet's been — and, oh dear, oh dear, she cries so, 
and says your father's disgraced my family, and made it the 
talk o' the country ; and she'll buy the spotted cloths for her- 
self^ because she's never had so many as she wanted o' that 
pattern, and they sha'n't go to strangers ; but she's got more 
checks a'ready nor she can do with." (Here Mrs. Tulliver be- 
gan to lay back the table-cloths in the chest, folding and strok- 
ing them automatically.) "And your uncle Gleg^s been too, 
and he says things must be bought in for us to lie down on, 
but he must talk to your aunt ; and they're all coming to con- 
sult But I know they'll none of 'em take my chany," 

she added, turning toward the cups and saucers — " for they 
all found fault with 'em when I bought 'em, 'cause o' the small 
gold sprig all over 'em, between the flowers. But there's none 
of 'em got better chany, not even your aunt Pullet herself — 
and I bought it wi' my own money as I'd saved ever since I 
was turned fifteen; and the silver teapot, too— your father 
never paid for 'em. And to think as he should ha' married 
me, and brought me to this." 

Mrs. Tulliver burst out crying afresh, and she sobbed with 
her handkerchief at her eyes a lew moments, but then remov- 
ing it, she said id a deprecating way, still half sobbing, as if 
she were called upon to speak before she could command her 
voice, 

" And I did say to him times and times, ' Whativer you do, 
don't go to law' — and what more could I do ? I've had to sit 
by while my own fortin's been spent, and what should ha' been 
my children's too. You'll have niver a penny, my boy .... 
but it isn't your poor mother's fault." 

She put out one arm toward Tom, looking up at him pito- 
ously with her helpless, childish blue eyes. "Kie poor lad went 
to her and kissed her, and she clung to him. For the first 
time Tom thought of his father with some reproach. His nat- 
ural inclination to blame, hitherto kept entirely in abeyance 
toward his father by the predisposition to think him always 
right, simply on the ground that he was Tom TuUiver's father, 
was turned into this new channel by his mother's plaints, 
and with his indignation as^ainst Wakem there besran to mins^le 
8ome indignation of anotLr sort. Perhaps his father mi|ht 
have helped bringing them all down in the world, and making 
people talk of them with contempt ; but no one should talk 
louff of Tom Tulliver with contempt. The natural strength 
and firmness of his nature was beginning to assert itself, urged 
hv the double stimulus of resentment against his aunts, and 
tae sense that he must behave like a man and take cax^ qII\sa 
mother. ^ 



182 THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

" Don't fret, mother," he said, tenderly. " I shall soon be 
able to get money : Til get a situation of some sort." 

" Bless you, my boy !" said Mrs. Tulliver, a little soothed. 
Then, looking round sadly, " But I shouldn't ha' minded so 
much if we could ha' kept the things wi' my name on 'em." 

Maggie had witnessed this scene with gathering anger. 
The implied reproaches against her father — her father, who 
was lying there in a sort of living death — ^neutralized all her 
pity for griefs about table-cloths and china ; and her anger on 
her father's account was heightened by some egoistic resent- 
ment at Tom's silent concurrence with her mother in shutting 
her out from the common calamity. She had become almost 
indifferent to her mother's habitual depreciation of her, but 
she was keenly alive to any sanction of it, however passive, 
that she might suspect in Tom. Poor Maggie was by no 
means made up of unalloyed devotedness, but put forth large 
claims for herself where she loved strongly. She burst out at 
last in an agitated, almost violent tone, " Mother, how can you 
talk so ? as if you cared only for things with your name on, 
and not for what has my father's name too — and to care about 
any thing but dear father himself, when he's lying there, and 
may never speak to us again ! Tom, you ought to say so too 
— you ought not to let any one find fault with my father." 

Maggie, almost choked with mingled grief and anger, left the 
room, and took her old place on her father's bed. Her heart 
went out to him with a stronger movement than ever at the 
thought that people would blame him. Maggie hated blame ; 
she had been blamed all her life, and nothing had come of it 
but evil tempers. Her father had always defended and ex- 
cused her, and her loving remembrance of his tenderness was 
a force within her that would enable her to do or bear any 
thing for his sake. 

Tom was a little shocked at Maggie's outburst — ^telling him 
as well as his mother what it was right to do 1 She ought to 
have learned better than have those hectoring, assuming man- 
ners by this time. But he presently went into his lather's 
room, and the sight there touched him in a way that efl^ed 
the slighter impressions of the previous hour. When Maggie 
saw how he was moved, she went to him and put her arm 
round his neck as he sat by the bed, and the two children for- 
got every thing else in the sense t|iat they had one father and 
one sorrow. 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 183 



CHAPTER m. 

THE FAMILY COUNCIL. 

It was at eleven o'clock the next morning that the aunts 
and uncles came to hold their consultation. The fire was 
lighted in the large parlor, and poor Mrs. Tulliver, with a con- 
fused impression that it was a great occasion, like a funeral, 
unbagged the bell-rope tassels, and unpini^ed the curtains, ad- 
justing them in proper folds — ^looking round and shaking her 
head sadly at the polished tops and legs of the tables, which 
sister Pullet herself could not accuse of insufficient brightness. 

Mr. Deane was not coming — ^he was away on business ; but 
Mrs. Deane appeared punctually in that handsome new gig 
with the head to it, and the livery-servant driving it, which 
had thrown so clear a light on several traits in her character to 
some of her female friends in St. Ogg's. Mr. Deane had been 
advancing in the world as rapidly as Mr. Tulliver had been 
going down in it ; and in Mrs. Deane's house, the Dodson lin- 
en and plate were beginning to hold quite a subordinate posi- 
tion, as a mere supplement to the handsomer articles of the 
same kind, purchased in recent years ; a change which had 
caused an occasional coolness in the sisterly intercourse be- 
tween her and Mrs. Glegg, who felt that Susan was getting 
" like the rest," and there would soon be little of the true Dod- 
son spirit surviving except in herself, and, it might be hoped, 
in those nephews who supported the Dodson name on the ikm- 
ily land far away in the Wolds. People who live at a distance! 
are naturally less faulty than those immediately imder our own I 
eyes ; and it seems superfluous, when we consider the remote 
geographical position of the Ethiopians, and how very little the 
Greeks had to do with them, to inquire further why Homer 
calls them " blameless." 

Mrs. Deane was the first to arrive ; and when she had taken 
her seat in the large parlor, Mrs. Tulliver came down to her 
with her comely face a little distorted, nearly as it would have 
been if she had been crying : she was not a womian who could 
shed abundant tears except in moments when the prospect of 
losing her furniture became unusually vivid, but she felt how 
unfitting it was to be quite calm under present circumstances^ 

" Oh sister, what a world this is I" she exclaimed as she en- 
tered ; " what trouble, oh dear I" 



184 THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

Mrs. Deane was a thin-lipped woman, who made small well- 
considered speeches on peculiar occasions, repeating them aft- 
erward :to her husband, and asking him if she had not spoken 
very properly. 

"Yes, sister," she said, deliberately, "this is a chan^g 
world, and we don't know to-day what may happen to-mor- 
row. But it's right to be prepared for all things, and if trou- 
ble's sent, to remember as it isn't sent without a cause. Tm 
very sorry for you as a sister, and if the doctor orders jelly for 
Mr. Tulliver, I hope you'll let me know : I'll send it willingly. 
For it is but right he should have proper attendance while 
he's ill." 

" Thank you, Susan," said Mrs. Tulliver, rather faintly, with- 
drawing her fat hand from her sister's thin one. " But there's 
been no talk o' jelly yet." Then, after a moment's pause, she 
added, " There's a dozen o' cut jelly-glasses up stairs. ... I 
ShsUl niver put jelly into 'em no more." 

Her voice was rather agitated as she uttered the last words, 
but the sound of wheels diverted her thoughts. Mr. and Mrs. 
Glegg were come, and were almost immediately followed by 
Mr. and Mrs. Pullet. 

Mrs. Pullet entered crying, as a compendious mode, at all 
times, of expressing what were her views of life in general, 
and what, in brief, were the opinions she held concemmg the 
particular case before her. 

Mrs. Glegg had on her fuzziest front, and garments which 
appeared to have had a recent resurrection from rather a creasy 
form of burial ; a costume selected with the high moral pur- 
pose of instilling perfect humility into Bessy and her children 

" Mrs. G., won't you come nearer the fire ?" said her hus- 
band, unwilling to take the more comfortable seat without of- 
fering it to her. 

" You see I've seated myself here, Mr. Glegg," returned this 
superior woman; "yow can roast yourself, if you like." 

" WeU," said Mr. Glegg, seating himself good-humoredly, 
" and how's the poor man up stairs ?" 

" Dr. Tumbull thought hun a deal better this morning," 
said Mrs. Tulliver ; " he took more notice, and spoke to me ; 
but he's never known Tom yet — ^looks at the poor lad as if he 
was a stranger, though he said something once about Tom 
and the pony. The doctor says his memory's gone a long 
way back, and he doesn't know Tom because he's thinking of 
him when he was little. Eh dear, eh dear !" 

" I doubt it's the water got on his brain," said aunt Pullet, 
turning round from adjusting her cap in a melancholy way at 
the pier-glass. " It's much if he ever gets up again ; and if 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 185 

he does, he'll most like be childish, as Mr. Carr was, poor man I 
They fed him with a spoon as if he'd been a baby for three 
year. He'd quite lost the use of his limbs ; but then he'd got 
a Bath chair, and somebody to draw him ; and that's what you 
won't have, I doubt, Bessy." 

" Sister Pullet," said Mrs. Glegg, severely, " if I understand 
right, we've come together this morning to advise and consult 
about what's to be done in this disgrace as has fallen upon the 
family, and not to talk o' people as don't belong to us. Mr. 
Carr was none of our blood, nor noways connected with us, as 
I've ever beared." 

" Sister Glegg," said Mrs. Pullet, in a pleading tone, draw- 
ing on her gloves again, and stroking the fingers in an agitated 
manner, "if you've got any thing disrespectful to say o' Mr. 
Carr, I do beg of you as you won't say it to me. Ikaow what 
he was," she added, with a sigh; "his breath was short to 
that degree as you could hear him two rooms off." 

" Sophy 1" said Mrs. Glegg, with indignant disgust, " you 
do talk o' people's complaints till it's quite undecent. But I 
say again, as I said before, I didn't come away from home to 
talk about acquaintance, whether they'd short breath or long. 
If we aren't come together for one to hear what the other 'uU 
do to save a sister and her children from the parish, Zshall go 
back. One can't act without the other, I suppose ; it isn't to 
be expected as Z should do every thing." 

" W ell, Jane," said Mrs. Pullet, " I don't see as you've been 
so very forrard at doing. So far as I know, this is the first 
time as here you've been, since it's been known as the bailiff's 
in the house; and I was here yesterday^ and looked at all 
Bessy's linen and things, and I told her I'd buy in the spotted 
table-cloths. I couldirt speak fairer ; for as for the teapot as 
she doesn't want to go out o' the family, it stands to sense I 
can't do with two silver teapots, not if it hadn't a straight 
spout — ^but the spotted damask I was allays fond on." 

" I wish it could be managed so as my teapot and chany and 
the best casters needn't be put up for sale," said poor Mrs. 
Tulliver, beseechingly, " and the sugar-tongs, the first things 
ever I bought." 

" But that can't be helped, you know," said Mr. Glegg. "If 
one o' the family chooses to buy 'em in, they can, but one thing 
must be bid for as well as another." 

" And it isn't to be looked for," said tmcle Pullet, with un- 
wonted independence of idea, " as your own family should pay 
more for thmgs nor they'll fetch. They may go for an old 
song by auction." 

w Oh dear, oh dear," said Mrs. Tulliver, " to think o' my 



186 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

chany being sold i' that way — and I bought it when^ I was 
married, just as you did yours, Jane and Sophy; and I know 
you didn't like mine, because o' the sprig, but I was fond of it; 
and there's never been a bit broke, for I've washed it myself— 
and there's the tulips on the cups, and the roses, as any body 
might go and look at 'em for pleasure. You wouldn't like 
ymir chany to go for an old song and be broke to pieces, though 
yours has got no c<Jlor in it, Jane — ^it's all white and fluted, and 
didn't cost so much as mine. And there's the casters — sister 
Deane, I can't think but you'd like to have the casters, for Fve 
heard you say they're pretty." 

" Well, I've no objection to buy some of the best things," 
said Mrs. Deane, rather loftily ; " we can do with extra things 
in our house." 

" Best things !" exclaimed Mrs. Glegg with severity, which 
had gathered intensity from her long silence. " It drives me 
past patience to hear you all taWdng o' best things, and buymg 
m this, that, and the other, such as silver and chany. You 
must bring your mind to your circumstances, Bessy, and not 
be thinking o' silver and chany ; but whether you shall get so 
much as a flock bed to lie on, and a blanket to cover you, and 
a stool to sit on. You must remember, if you get 'em, it'U be 
because your friends have bought 'em for you, for you're de- 
pendent upon them for every thing; for your husband lies 
there helpless, and hasn't got a penny i' the world to call his 
own. And it's for your own good I say this ; for it's right you 
should feel what your state is, and what disgrace your hus- 
band's brought on your own family, as you've got to look to 
for every thing — and be humble in your own mind." 

Mrs. Glegg paused, for speaking with much energy for the 
good of others is naturally exhausting. Mrs. Tulliver, always 
borne down by the family predominance of sister Jane, who 
had made her wear the yoke of a younger sister in tender 
years, said pleadingly, 

" I'm sure, sister, I've never asked any body to do any thing, 
only buy things as it 'ud be a pleasure to 'em to have, so as 
they mightn't go and be spoiled i' strange houses. I never 
asked any body to buy the things in for me and my children ; 
though there's the linen I spun, and I thought when Tom was 
bora — ^I thought one o' the first things when he was lying i' 
the cradle, as all the things I'd bought wi' my own money, and 
been so careful of, 'ud go to him. But I've said nothing as I 
wanted my sisters to pay their money for me. What my hus- 
band has done for his sister 's unknown, and we should ha' 
been better off this day if it hadn't been as he's lent money 
and never asked for it again." 



. THE HILL ON T£LE FLOSS. 18^ 

" Come, come," said Mr. Glegg, kindly, " don't let ns make 
things too dark. What's done can't be undone. We sliall 
make a shift among ns to buy what's sufficient for you ; though, 
as Mrs. G. says, they must be useful, plain things. We mustn't 
be thinking o' what's unnecessary. A table, and a chair or 
two, and kitchen things, and a good bed, and suchlike. Why, 
I've seen the day when I shouldn't ha' known myself if I'd lain 
on sacking i'stead o' the floor. We get a deal o' useless things 
about us only because we've got the money to spend." 

" Mr. Glegg," said Mrs. G., " if you'll be kind enough to let 
me speak, i'stead o' taking the words out o' my mouth — ^I was 
going to say, Bessy, as it's fine talking for you to say as you've 
never asked us to buy any thing for you ; let me tell you, you 
ought to have asked us. Pray, how are you to be purvided 
for if your own family don't help you ? You must go to the 
parish if they didn't. And you ought to know that, and keep 
it in mind, and ask us humble to do what we can for you, 
i'stead o' saying, and making a boast, as you've never asked us 
for any thing." 

" You talked o' the Mosses, and what Mr. TulUver's done 
for 'em," said uncle Pullet, who became unusually suggestive 
where advances of money were concerned. "Haven't tJiey 
been anear you ? They ought to do something as well as 
other folks ; and if he's lent 'em money, they ought to be made 
to pay it back." 

" Yes, to be sure," said Mrs. Deane ; " I've been thinking so. 
How is it Mr. and Mrs. Moss aren't here to meet us ? It is 
but right they should do their share." 

'^ Oh dear !" said Mrs. TuUiver, " I never sent 'em word 
about Mr. Tulliver, and they live so back'ard among the lanes 
at Basset, they niver hear any thing only when Mr. Moss 
comes to market. But I niver gave 'em a thought. I wonder 
Maggie didn't, though, for she was allays so fond of her aunt 
Moss." 

" Why don't your children come in, Bessy ?" said Mrs. Pul- 
let, at the mention of Maggie. " They should hear what then* 
aimts arid uncles have got to say ; and Maggie — ^when it's me 
as have paid for half her schooling, she ought to think more 
of her aunt Pullet nor of aunt Mosses. I may go off sudden 
when I get home to-day — ^there's no telling." 

"If I'd had my way," said Mrs. Glegg, "the children 'ud 
ha' been in the room from the first. It's time they knew who 
they've to talk to, and it's right as somebody should talk to 
'em and let 'em know their condition i' life, and what they're 
come down to, and make 'em feel as they've got to suffer for 
their &ther's faults." 



188 THE MILL ON THB 7L066. 

"Wen, rn go and fetch 'em, sister,** said Mrs. Tnlliver, re- 
signedly. She was quite crushed now, and thought of the 
treasures in the store-room with no other feeling than blank 
despair. 

She went up stairs to fetch Tom and Maggie, who were both 
in their father's room, and was on her way down again, when 
the sight of the store-room door suggested a new thought to 
her. She went toward it, and left the children to go down by 
themselves. 

The aunts and uncles appeared to have been in warm dis- 
cussion when the brother and sister entered — both with shrink- 
ing reluctance ; for though Tom, Ti-ith a practical sagacity 
which had been roused into activity by the strong stimulus of 
the new emotions he had undergone since yesterday, had been 
turning over in his mind a plan which he meant to propose to 
one of his aunts or uncles, he felt by no means amicably toward 
them, and dreaded meeting them all at once as he would have 
dreaded a large dose* of concentrated physic, which was but 
just endurable in small draughts. As for Maggie, she was pe- 
culiarly depressed this morning : she had been called up, after 
brief rest, at three o'clock, and had that strange dreamy wea- 
riness which comes from watching in a sick-room through the 
chill hours of early twilight and breaking day, in which the 
outside daylight life seems to have no importance, and to be a 
mere margin to the hours in the darkened chamber. Their 
entrance interrupted the conversation. The shaking of hands 
was a melancholy and silent ceremony, till uncle I*ullet ob- 
served, as Tom approached him, 

" Well, young sir, we've been talking as we should want 
your pen and ink ; you can write rarely now, after all your 
schooling, I should think." 

"Ay, ay," said uncle Glegg, with admonition which he 

meant to be kind, " we must look to see the good of all this 

schooling, as your father's sunk so much money in, now — 

" * When land is gone and money spent, 
Then learning is most excellent.' 

Now's the time, Tom, to let us see the good o' your learning. 
Let us see whether you can do better than I can, as have made 
my fortin' without it. But I began wi' doing with little, you 
see ; I could live on a basin o' porridge and a crust o' bread 
and cheese. But I doubt high living and high learning 'ull 
make it harder for you, young man, nor it was for me." 

" But he must do it," interposed aimt Glegg, energetically, 
" whether it's hard or no. He hasn't got to consider what's 
hard ; he must consider as he isn't to trusten to his friends to 
keep him in idleness and luxury ; he's got to bear the fruits 



THB MILL ON THB FLOSS. 189 

of his father's miscondact, and bring his mind to fare hard and 
to work hard. And he must be humble and grateful to his 
aunts and uncles for what they're doing for his mother and fa^ 
ther, as must be turned out into the streets and go to the work- 
house if they didn't help 'em. And his sister, too," continued 
3Mrs. Glegg, looking severely at Maggie, who had sat down on 
the sofa by her aunt Deane, drawn to her by the sense that she 
was Lucy's mother, " she must make up her mind to be hum- 
ble and work ; for there'll be no servants to wait on her any 
more — she must remember that. She must do the work o' the 
house, and she must respect and love her aunts as have done 
so much for her, and saved their money to leave to their 
nepheys and nieces." 

Tom was still standing before the table in the centre of the 
group. There was a heightened color in his face, and he was 
very far from looking humbled, but he was preparing to say, 
in a respectful tone, something he had previously meditated, 
when the door opened and his mother re-entered. 

Poor Mrs. Tulliver had in her hands a small tray, on which 
she had placed her silver teapot, a specimen teacup and saucer, 
the casters, and sugar-tongs. 

" See here, sister," she said, looking at Mrs. Deane, as she set 
the tray on the table, " I thought, perhaps, if you looked at the 
teapot again — ^it's a good while since you saw it — ^you might 
like the pattern better ; it makes beautiful tea, and there's a 
stand and every thing : you might use it for every day, or -else 
lay it by for Lucy when she goes to housekeeping. I should 
be so loth for 'em to buv it at the Golden Lion," said the poor 
woman, her heart sweUmg, and the tears coming, " my teapot 
as I bought when I was married, and to think o' its being 
scratched, and set before the travelers and folks, and my let- 
ters on it — see here, E. D. — and every body to see 'em." 

** Ah ! dear, dear !" said aunt Pullet, shaking her head with 
deep sadness, " it's very bad — to think o' the family initials 
going about every where — it niver was so before: you're a 
very unlucky sister, Bessy. But what's the use o' buying the 
teapot, when there's the linen, and spoons, and every thing to 
go, and some of 'em with your full name — and when it's got 
that straight spout too." 

" As to disgrace o' the family," said Mrs. Glegg, " that can't 
be helped wi' buying teapots. The disgrace is for one o' the 
family to ha' married a man as has brought her to beggary. 
The disgrace is as they're to be sold up. We can't hinder the 
country from knowing that." 

Maggie had started up from the sofa at the allusion to her 
fiither, DQt Tom saw her action and flushed face in time to pre- 



190 THE Xnx O^ THE FLOS& 

vent her from speaking. " Be qniet, Maggie," he sud, a1ltho^ 
itativelj, poshing her aside. It was a remarkable manifesta- 
tion of sdf-command and practical judgment in a lad of fifteen, 
that, when his aunt Glegg ceased, he began to speak in a 
qniet and respectful manner, though with a good deal of tranr 
blin^ in his voice ; for his mother's words had cot him to the 
quick. 

**Then, aunt," he smd, looking stnught at Mrs. Glegg, "if 
vou think it's a dis<n^ce to the family that we should be sold 
up, wouldn't it be better to prevent it altogether ? And if 
you and my aunt PuUet," he continued, looking at the latter, 
^^ think of leaving any money to me and Magme, wouldn't it 
be better to give it now, and pay the debt we re going to he 
sold up for, and save my mother from parting with her fhnii- 
ture ?" 

There was silence for a few moments, for every one, includ- 
ing Maggie, was astonished at Tom's sudden manliness of tone. 
Uncle Glegg was the first to speak. 

" Ay, ay, young man — come now ! You show some notion 
o' things. 6ut there's the interest, you must remember ; your 
aunts get five per cent, on their money, and they'd lose that 
if they advanced it : you haven't thought o' that." 

" I could work and pay that every year," said Tom, prompt- 
ly. " I'd do any thing to save my mother from parting with 
her things." 

" Well done !" said uncle Glegg, admiringly. He had been 
drawing Tom out rather than reflecting on the practicability 
of his proposal. But he had produced the unfortunate result 
of irritating his wife. 

" Yes, Mr. Glegg !" said that lady, with angry sarcasm. 
" It's pleasant work for you to be giving my money away, as 
you've pretended to leave at my own disposial. And my 
money, as was my own father's gift, and not yours, Mr. Glegg ; 
and I've saved it, and added to it myself, and had more to put 
out almost every year, and it's to go and be sunk in other 
folks's furniture, and encourage 'em in luxury and extrava- 
gance as they've no means of supporting ; and Fm to alter my 
will, or have a codicil made, and leave two or three hundred 
less behind me when I die — ^me as have allays done right and 
been careful, and the eldest o' the family ; and my money's to 
go and be squandered on them as have had the same chance 
as me, only they've been wicked and wasteful. Sister Pullet, 
you may do as you like, and you may let your husband rob you 
back again o' the money he's given you, but that isn't my 
sperrit." 

"La, Jane, how fieiy you are!" swd Mrs. PuUet. "I'm 



THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 191 

sure you'll have the blood in your head, and have to be cup- 
ped. Fm sorry for Bessy and her children — I'm sure I think 
of 'em o' nights dreadful, for I sleep very bad wi' this new 
medicine ; but it's no use for me to think o' doing any thing 
if you won't meet me half way." 

" Why, there's this to be considered," said Mr. Glegg. " It's 
no use to pay off this debt and save the furniture, when there's 
aU the law debts behind, as 'ud take every shilling, and more 
than could be made out o' land and stock, for I've made that 
out from Lawyer Gore. We'd need save our money to keep 
the poor man with, instead o' spending it on furniture as he 
can neither eat nor drink. You will he so hasty, Jane, as if I 
didn't know what was reasonable." 

" Then speak accordingly, Mr. Glegg !" said his wife, with 
slow, loud emphasis, bending her head toward him signifi- 
cantly. 

Tom's countenance had fallen during this conversation, and 
his lip quivered ; but he was determined not to give way. He 
would behave like a man. Maggie, on the contrary, after her 
momentary delight in Tom's speech, had relapsed into her state 
of trembling indignation. Her mother had been standing close 
by Tom's side, and had been clinging to his arm ever since he 
had last spoken; Maggie suddenly started up and stood in 
front of them, her eyes flashing like the eyes of a young lion- 
ess. 

" Why do you come, then," she burst out, " talking and in- 
terfering with us and scolding us, if you don't mean to do any 
thing to help my poor mother — your own sister — ^if you've no 
feeling for her when she's in trouble, and won't part with any 
thing, though you would never miss it, to save her from pain ? 
Keep away from us, then, and don't come to find fault with 
my father — ^he was better than any of you — ^he was kind — ^he 
would have helped you, if you had been in trouble. Tom and 
I don't ever want to have any of your money, if you won't 
help my mother. We'd rather not have it ; we'll do without 
you." 

Maggie, having hurled her defiance at aunts and uncles in 
this way, stood still, with her large dark eyes glaring at them, 
as if she were ready to await all consequences. 

Mrs. Tulliver was frightened ; there was something porten- 
tous in this mad outbreak ; she did not see how life could go 
on after it. Tom was vexed ; it was no tise to talk so. The 
aunts were silent with surprise for some moments. At length, 
in a case of aberration such as this, comment presented itself 
as more expedient than any answer. 

" Tou haven^t seen the end o' your trouble wi' that child^ 



192 THE lOIX ON THE FU)8B. 

Bessy," said Mrs. Piillet ; " she's beyond every^ thing for bold- 
ness and unthankfubiess. It's dreadful. I might ha' let alone 
paying for her schooling, for she's worse nor ever." 

^^It's no more than what I've allays said," followed Mrs. 
Crlegg. " Other folks may be surprised, but Fm not. Fvc 
said over and over again — ^years ago I've said — ^Mark my 
words, that child 'ull come to no good : there isn't a bit of our 
family in her.' And as for her having so much schooling, I 
never thought well o' that. I'd my reasons when I said/ 
wouldn't pay any thing toward it." 

" Come, come," said Mr. Glegg, " let's waste no more time 
in talking — ^let's go to business. Tom now, get the pen and 
ink—" 

While Mr. Glegg was speaking, a tall dark figure was seen 
hurrying past the window. 

" Why, there's Mrs. Moss," said Mrs. Tulliver. " The bad 
news must ha' reached her, then ;" and she went out to open 
the door, Maggie eagerly following her. 

"That's fortunate," said Mrs. Glegg. "She can agree to 
the list o' things to be bought in. it's but right she shoold 
do her share when it's her own brother." 

Mrs. Moss was in too much agitation to resist Mrs. Tulli- 
ver's movement as she drew her into the parlor automatically, 
without reflecting that it was hardly kind to take her among 
so many persons in the first painful moment of arrival. The 
tall, worn, dark-haired woman was a strong contrast to the 
Dodson sisters as she entered in her shabby dress, with her 
shawl and bonnet looking as if they bad been hastily huddled 
on, and with that entire absence of self-consciousness which 
belongs to keenly-felt trouble. Maggie was clinging to her 
arm ; and Mrs. Moss seemed to notice no one else except Tom, 
whom she went straight up to and took by the hand. 

" Oh my dear children," she burst out, " you've no call to 
think well o' me ; I'm a poor aunt to you, for I'm one o' them 
as take all and give nothing. How's my poor brother ?" 

" Mr. Turnbull thinks he'll get better," said Maggie. " Sit 
down, aunt Gritty. Don't fret." , 

" Oh my sweet child, I feel torn i' two," said Mrs. Moss, al- 
lowing Maggie to lead her to the sofa, but still not seeming 
to notice the presence of the rest. " We've three hundred 
pounds o' my brother's money, and now he wants it, and you 
all want it, poor things — and yet we must be sold up to pay 
it ; and there's my poor children — eight of 'em, and the little 
un of all can't speak plain. And I feel as if I was a robber. 
But I'm sure I'd no tnought as my brother . . . ." 

The poor woman was interrupted by a rising sob. 



THE MILL OK THE FLOSS. 193 

** Three hundred pounds ! Oh dear, dear," said Mrs. Tulli- 
ver, who, when she had said that her husband had done ^^ un- 
known" things for his. sister, had not had any particular sum 
in her mind, and felt a wife's irritation at having been kept in 
the dark. 

" What madness, to be sure !" said Mrs. Glegg. " A man 
with a family ! He'd no right to lend his money i' that way ; 
and without security, I'll be bound, if the truth was known." 

Mrs. Glegg's voice had arrested Mrs. Moss's attention, and, 
looking up, she said, 

** Yes, there was security ; my husband gave a note for it. 
We're not that sort o' people, neither of us, as *ud rob my 
brother's children ; and we looked to paying back the money 
when the times got a bit better." 

" Well, but now," said Mr. Glegg, gently, " hasn't your hus- 
band no way o' raising this money ? Because it 'ud be a little 
fortin', like, for these folks, if we can do without TuUiver's 
being made a bankrupt. Your husband's got stock : it is but 
right he should raise the money, as it seems to me — ^not but 
what I'm sorry for you, Mrs. Moss." 

" Oh sir, you don't know what bad luck my husband's had 
with his stock. The farm's suffering so as never was for want 
o' stock ; and we've sold all the wheat, and we're behind with 
our rent .... not but what we'd like to do what's right, and 
I'd sit up and work half the night, if it 'ud be any good .... 
but there's them poor children .... four of 'em such little 
tins . . . ." 

"Don't cry so, aunt — don't fret," whispered Maggie, who 
had kept hold of Mrs. Moss's hand. 

*'Did Mr. Tulliver let you have the money all at once?" 
said Mrs. Tulliver, still lost to the conception of things which 
had been " going on" without her knowledge. 

** No ; at twice," said Mrs. Moss, rubbing her eyes, and mak- 
ing an effort to restrain her tears. " The last was after my bad 
illness four years ago, as every thing went wrong, and there 
was a new note made then. What with illness ana bad luck, 
I've been nothing but cumber all my life." 

" Yes, Mi's. Moss," said Mrs. Glegg, with decision, " yours is 
a very unlucky fanoily ; the more's the pity for my sister." 

"I set off in the cart as soon as ever I heard o' what had 
happened," said Mrs. Moss, looking at Mrs. Tulliver. " I should 
never ha' staid away all this while if you'd thought well to let 
me know. And it isn't as I'm thinking all about ourselves, 
and nothing about my brother — only the money was so on my 
mind, I couldn't help speaking about it. And my husband 
aad me desire to do the right thing, sir," she added, looking at 

I 



194 THB HILL ON THB FLOSfi. 

Mr. Glegg, ^^ and we'll make shift and pay the money, oome 
what wSl, if that's all my brother's got to trust to. "We've 
been used to trouble, and don't look for much else. It's only 
the thought o' my poor children pulls me i' two." 

^^ Why, there's this to be thought on, Mrs. Moss," said Mr. 
Glegg, ^^ and its right to warn you : if Tulliyer's made a bant 
rupt, and he's got a note of hand of your husband's for three 
hundred pounds, you'll be obliged to pay it: th' assigneeB 'nil 
come on you for it." 

^' Oh dear, oh dear I" said Mrs. Tulliver, thinking of the bank- 
ruptcy, and not of Mrs. Moss's concern in it. Poor Mrs. Moss 
herself listened in trembling submission, while Maggie looked 
with bewildered distress at Tom to see if ihe showed any signs 
of understanding this trouble, and caring about poor aunt 
Moss. Tom was only looking thoughtful, with his eyes on the 
table-cloth. 

" And if he isn't made bankrupt," continued Mr. Gleg^, " as 
I said before, three hundred pounds 'ud be a little fortm' for 
him, poor man. We don't Imow but what he may be partly 
helpless, if he ever gets up again. Fm very sorry if it goes 
hurd with you, Mrs.Moss ; but my opinion is, looking at it one 
way, it'll be right for you to raise the money ; and looking at it 
th' other way, you'll be obliged to pay it. You won't think 
ill o' me for speaking the truth." 

" Uncle," said Tom, looking up suddenly from his meditative 
view of the table-cloth, " I don't think it would be right for 
my aunt Moss to pay the money, if it would be against my 
father's wiQ for her to pay it — would it ?" 

Mr. Glegg looked surprised for a moment or two before he 
said, "Why, no, perhaps not, Tom ; but then he'd ha' destroyed 
the note, you know. We must look for the note. What makes 
you think it 'ud be against his will?" 

" Why," said Tom, coloring, but trying to speak firmly, m 
spite of a boyish tremor, " I remember quite well, before I .went 
to school to Mr. Stelling, my father said to me one night, when 
we were sitting by the fire together, and no one else was in 
the room . . . ." 

Tom hesitated a littie, and then went on. 

"He said something to me about Maggie, and then he said, 
*I've always been good to my sister, though she married 
against my will — and I've lent Moss money ; but I shall never 
tmnk of distressing him to pay it — ^I'd rather lose it. My chil- 
dren must not mind being the poorer for that.' And now my 
father's ill, and not able to speak for himself, I shouldn't like 
any thing to be done contrary to what he said to me." 

" Well, but, then, my boy," said uncle Glegg, whose good 



THB MILL OH THB FLOSS. 196 

feeHng led him to enter into Toin's wish, bnt who could not at 
once shake off' his habitual abhorrence of such recklessness as 
destroying securities, or alienating any thing important enough 
to make an appreciable difference in a man's property, ^^ we 
should have to make away wi' the note, you know, if we're to 
guard against what may liappen, supposing your father's made 
bankrupt . . . •" 

*'Mr. Glegg," interrupted his wife severely, "mind what 
you're saying. You're putting yourself very forrard in other 
folks's business. If you speak rash, don't say it was my fault." 

"That's such a thing as I never heard of before," said uncle 
Pallet, who had been making haste with his lozenge in order 
to express his amazement; "making away with a note! I 
should think any body could set the constable on you for it." 

« Well, but," said Mrs. Tulliver, " if the note's worth all that 
money, why can't we pay it away, and save my things from 
going away ? We've no call to meddle with your uncle and 
annt Moss, Tom, if you think your father 'ud be angry when 
he gets well." • 

Mrs. Tulliver had not studied the question of exchange, and ^ 
was straining her mind after original ideas on the subject. 

"Pooh! pooh! pooh! you women don't understand these 
things," said uncle Glegg. " There's no way o' making it safe 
for Mr. and Mrs. Moss but destroying the note." 

"Then I hope you'll help me to do it, uncle," said Tom, 
earnestly. " If my father shouldn't get well, I should be very 
mihappy to think any thing had been done against his will that 
I cotdd hinder. And I'm sure he meant me to remember what 
he said that evening. I ought to obey my father's wish about . 
his property." 

Ihren Mrs. Glegg could not withhold her approval from 
Tom's words : she felt that the Dodson blood was certainly 
speaking in him, though, if his father had been a Dodson, there 
would never have been this wicked alienation of money. Mag- 
gie would hardly have restrained herself from leaping on Tom's 
neck if her aunt Moss had not prevented her by herself rising 
and taking Tom's hand, while she said, with rather a choked 
voice, 

*' YouH never be the poorer for this, mv dear boy, if there's 
a Gh>d above ; and if the money's wanted for your father. Moss 
and me 'nil pay it, the same as if there was ever such security. 
WeTl do as we'd be done by ; for if my children have got no 
other luck, they've got an honest father and mother." 
' "Well," said Mr. Glegg, who had been meditating after 
Tom's words, "we shoulda't be doing any wrong by the cred- 
itorSy supposing your &ther uhm bankrupt. F ve been thinking 



196 THE MILL ON THE VLOSS. 

o' that, for Fve been a creditor myself and seen no end o' 
cheating. If he meant to give your aunt the money before 
ever he got into this sad work o' lawing, it's the same as if 
he'd made away with the note himself; for he'd made up his 
mind to be that much poorer. But there's a deal p' things to 
be considered, young man," Mr. Glegg added, looking admon- 
ishingly at Tom, " wien you come to money business, and you 
may be taking one man's dinner away to make another man's 
breakfast. You don't understand that, I doubt ?" 

" Yes I do," said Tom, decidedly. " I know if I owe money 
to one man, I've no right to give it to another. But if my m- 
ther had made up his mind to give my aunt the money b^ore 
he was in debt, he had a right to do it." 

^^ Well done, young man ! I didn't think you'dbeen so sharp," 
said uncle Glegg, with much candor. ^^But perhaps your fa- 
ther did make away with the note. Let us go and see if we 
can find it in the chest." 

^' It's in my father's room. Let us go too, aunt Qritty," 
whispered Maggie. 



CHAPTER IV. 

A VANISHING GLEAM. 



Mr. TtTLLTVEB, even between the fits of spasmodic rigidity 
which had recurred at intervals ever since he had been found 
&llen from his horse, was usually in so apathetic a condition 
that the exits and entrances into his room were not felt to be 
of great importance. He had lain so still, with his eyes dosed, 
all this morning, that Maggie told her aunt Moss she must not 
expect her father to take any notice of them. 

They entered very quietly, and Mrs. Moss took her seat near 
the head of the bed, while Maggie sat in her old place on the 
bed, and put her hand on her father's, without causing any 
change in nis face. 

Mr. Glegg and Tom had also entered, treading softly, and 
were busy selecting the key of the oak chest from the bunch 
which Tom had brought from his father's bureau. They suc- 
ceeded in opening the chest, which stood opposite the foot of 
Mr. Tulliver's bed, and propping the lid with the iron holder, 
without much noise. 

" There's a tin box," whispered Mr. Glegg ; " he'd most like 
put a small thing like a note in there. Lift it out, Tom; but 
I'll just lift up these deeds — ^they're the deeds o' the house and 
miU^ I suppose — ^and see what there is under 'em." 



THB MILL t>N TECE ITLOSS. 19f 

Mr. Glegg had lifted out the parchments, and had fortunate- 
ly drawn back a little, when the iron holder gave way, and 
tiie heavy lid fell with a loud bang, that resounded over the 
house. 

Perhaps there was something in that sound more than the 
mere &>ct of the strong vibration that produced the instanta- 
neous effect on the frame of the prostrate man, and for the 
time completely shook off the obstruction of paralysis. The 
chest had belonged to his father and his fathers father, and it 
had always been rather a solemn business to visit it. All long- 
known objects, even a mere window-^tening or a particular 
door-latch, have sounds which are a sort of recognized voice 
to us — a voice that will thrill and awaken, when it has been 
used to touch deep-lying fibres. In the same moment, when 
all the eyes in the room were turned upon him, he started up 
and looked at the chest, the parchments in Mr. Glegg's hand, 
said Tom holding the tin box, with a glance of perfect con- 
sciousness and recognition. 

" What are you going to do with those deeds ?" he said, in 
his ordinary tone of sharp-questioning whenever he was irri- 
tated. " Come here, Tom. What do you do, going to my 
chest ?" 

Tom obeyed, with some trembling : it was the first time his 
&ther had recognized him. But instead of saying any thing 
more to him, his father continued to look with a growing dis- 
tinctness of suspicion at Mr. Glegg and the deeds. 

*' What's been happening, then ?" he said, sharply. " What 
are you meddling with my deeds for ? Is Wakem laying hold 
of every thing ? . . . . Why don't you tell me what you've 
been a-doing" he added, impatiently, as Mr. Glegg advanced to 
the foot of the bed before speaking. 

" No, no, friend Tulliver," said Mr. Glegg, in a soothing tone, 
"nobody's getting hold of any thing as yet. We only came 
to look and see what was in the chest. You've been ill, you 
know, and we've had to look ailer things a bit. But let's 
hope you'll soon be well enough to attend to every thing your- 
self." 

Mr. Tulliver looked round him meditatively — ^at Tom, at Mr. 
Glegg, and at Maggie ; then suddenly appearing aware that 
some one was seated by his side at the head of the bed, he 
turned sharply round and saw his sister. 

" Eh, Gritty !" he said, in the half-sad, affectionate tone in 
which he had been wont to speak of her. " What ! you're 
there, are you ? How could you manage to leave the chil- 
dren?" 

*^ Oh, brother 1" said good Mrs, Moss, too impulsive to be 



198 THB -KILL ON THX WUMSL 

pmdent, ^^Fm thankfiil Fm come now to see yon yoimielf 
again ; I thought yoa'd never know us any more." 

^^ What ! have 1 had a stroke ?'' said Mr. ToUiver, anxiously, 
looking at Mr. Glegg. 

*^ A faJl from your horse — shook yon a bit — that's all, I 
think," said Mr. Glegg. ^^ But you'll soon get over it, let* s 
hope." 

Mr. Tulliver fixed his eyes on the bed-dothes, and remained 
ffllent for two or three minutes. A new shadow came over his 
face. He looked up at Maggie first, and said in a lower tone, 
** You got the letter, then, my wench ?" 

^^ Yes, father," she said, kissing him with a full heart. She 
felt as if her father were come back to her from the dead, and 
her yearning to show him how she had always loved him could 
befulfiUed. 

" Where's your mother ?" he said, so preoccupied that he re- 
ceived the kiss as passively as some qmet animal might have 
received it. 

^^ She's down stairs with my aunts, &ther ; shall I fetch 
her ?" 

" Ay, ay : poor Bessy !" and his eyes turned toward Ton* as 
Magme left the room. 

" You'll have to take care of 'em both if I die, you know, 
Tom. You'll be badly offj I doubt. But you must see and 

?ay every body. And mind — ^there's fifty pound o' Luke's as 
put into the business — he gave it me a bit at a time, and he's 
got nothing to show for it. You must pay him first thing." 

Uncle Glegg involuntarily shook his head, and looked more 
concerned than ever ; but Tom said firmly, 

" Yes, father. And haven't you a note from my uncle Moss 
for three hundred pounds ? We came to look for that. What 
do you wish to be done about it, father ?" 

" Ah ! I'm glad you thought o' that, my lad," said Mr. Tul- 
liver. " I allays meant to be easy about that money, because 
o' your aunt. You mustn't mind losing the money, if they can't 
pay it — and it's like enough they can't. The note's in that box, 
mind ! I allays meant to be good to you, Gritty," ^d Mr. Tul- 
liver, turning to his sister ; " but, you know, you aggravated 
me when you would have Moss." 

At this moment Maggie re-entered with her mother, who 
came in much agitated by the news that her husband was 
quite himself agam. 

" Well, Bessy," he said, as she kissed him, " you must for- 
give me if you're worse ofF than you ever expected to be. But 
it's the fault o' the law — ^it's none o' mine,"lie added, angrily. 
" It's the feult o' raskills ! Tom— you mind this : if fever youVe 



THB MILL ON THB FLOSS. 199 

got the chance, jron make Wakem smart. If you don't, you're 
a good for nothmg son. You might horsewmp him — ^but he'd 
set the law on you : the law's made to take care o' raskills." 

Mr. Tulliver was getting excited, and an alarming flush was 
on his fece. Mr. Glegg wanted to say something soothing, 
but he was prevented by Mr. Tulliver's speaking again to his 
wife. "They'll make a shift to pay every thing, Bessy," he 
said, " and yet leave you your ftirmture ; and your sisters '11 
do something for you .... and Tom '11 grow up ... . though 
what he's to be I don't know .... I've done what I could .... 
Fve given him a eddication .... and there's the little wench, 
shell get married .... but it's a poor tale . . . ." 

The sanative effect of the strong vibration was exhausted, 
and with the last words the poor man feU again, rigid and in- 
sensible. Though this was only a recurrence of what had hap- 
pened before, it struck all present as if it had been death, not 
only from its contrast with the completeness of the revival, 
but because his words had all had reference to the possibility 
that his death was near. But with poor Tulliver death was 
not to be a leap ; it was to be a long descent under thickening 
shadows. 

Mr. Tumbull was sent for ; but when he heard what had 
passed, he said this complete restoration, though only tempo- 
rary, was a hopeful sign, proving that there was no permanent 
lesion to prevent ultimate recovery. 

Among the threads of the past which the stricken man had 
gathered up, he had omitted the bill of sale ; the flash of mem- 
oir had only lit up prominent ideas, and he sank into forget- 
fumess again with half his humiliation unlearned. 

But Tom was clear upon two points — ^that his uncle Moss's 
note must be destroyed, and that Luke's money must be paid, 
if in no other way, out of his own and Maggie's money now in 
the Savings' Bank. There were subjects, you perceive, on 
which Tom was much quicker than on the niceties of classical 
construction, or the relations of a mathematical demonstration. 



CHAPTER V. 

TOK APPLIES HIS KNIFS TO THE OYSTEB. 

The next day, at ten o'clock, Tom was on his way to St. 
Og^8 to isee his uncle Deane, who was to come home last 
nignt, his aunt had said ; and Tom had made up his mind that 
his uncle Deane was the right person to ask for advice about 
getting some employment. He was in a great way of buai- 



200 THB MILL ON THB 1X088« 

ness ; he had not the narrow notions of nnde Glegg ; and he 
had risen in the world on a scale of advancement which ac- 
corded with Tom's ambition. 

It was a dark, chill, misty morning, likely to end in rain — 
one of those mornings when even happy people take re^ge in 
their hopes. And Tom was very unhappy : he felt the humil- 
iation, as well as the prospective hardsnips of his lot, with all 
the keenness of a proud nature ; and with all his resolute du- 
tifiiluess toward his father there mingled an irrepressible in- 
dignation against him which gave misfortune the less endura- 
ble aspect of a wrong. Since these were the consequences ^f 
going to law, his father was really blamable, as his aunts and 
uncles had always said he was ; and it was a significant indi- 
cation of Tom's character, that though he thought his aunts 
ought to do something more for his mother, he felt nothing 
like Maggie's violent resentment against them for showing no 
eager tenderness and generosity. There were no impulses in 
Tom that led him to expect what did not present itself to him 
as a right to be demanded. Why should people give away 
their money plentifully to those who had not taken care of 
their own money ? Tom saw some justice in severity ; and 
all the more, because he had confidence in himself that he 
should never deserve that just severity. It was very hard 
upon him that he should be put at this disadvantage in life by 
his father's want of prudence ; but he was not going to com- 
plain and to find fault with people because they did not make 
every thing easy for him. He would ask no one to help him 
more than to give him work and pay him for it. Poor Tom 
was not without his hopes to take refiige in under the chill 
damp imprisonment of the December fog which seemed only 
Hke a part of his home troubles. At sixteen, the mind that 
has the strongest affinity for fact can not escape illusion and 
self-flattery ; and Tom, in sketching his future, had no other 
guide in arranging his facts than the suggestions of his own 
brave self-reliance. Both Mr. Glegg and Mr. Deane, he knew, 
had been very poor once: he did not want to save money 
slowly and retire on a moderate fortune like his uncle Glegg, 
but he would be like his uncle Deane— get a situation in some 
great house of business and rise fast. He had scarcely seen 
any thing of his uncle Deane for the last three years — ^the two 
families had been getting wider apart ; but for this very rea- 
son Tom was the more hopeful about applying to him. His 
uncle Glegg, he felt sure, would never encourage any spirited 

E reject, but he had a vague imposing idea of the resources at 
is uncle Deane's command. He had heard his &ther say, 
long ago, how Deane had made himself so valuable to Guest 



THB HILL ON THE XXOSS* 201 

Sd Co. that they were glad enough to offer him a share in the 
business : that was what Tom resolved he would da It was 
intolerable to think of being poor and looked down upon all 
one's Kfe. He would provide for his mother and sister, and 
make every one say that he was a man of high character. He 
leaped over the years in this way, and in the haste of strong 
purpose and strong desire did not see how they would be 
made up of slow days, hours, and minutes. 

By the time he had crossed the stone bridge over the Floss, 
and was entering St. Ogg's, he was thinking that he would 
buy his father's mill and land again when he was rich enough, 
and improve the house and live there : he should prefer it to 
any smarter, newer place, and he could keep as many horses 
and dogs as he liked. 

Walking along the street with a firm, rapid step, at this 
point in his reverie he was startled by some one who had 
crossed without his notice, and who said to him, in a rough, 
familiar voice, 

"Why, Master Tom, how's your father this morning ?" It 
was a publican of St. Ogg's — one of his father's customers. 

Tom disliked being spoken to just then ; but he said civilly, 
"He's still very ill, thank you." 

*' Ay, it's been a sore chance for you, young man, hasn't it? 
— ^this lawsuit turning out against him," said the publican, 
with a confiised beery idea of being good-natured. 

Tom reddened and passed on : he would have felt it like 
the handling of a bruise, even if there had been the most po- 
lite and delicate reference to his position. 

** That's Tulliver's son," said the publican to a grocer stand- 
ing on the adjacent door-step. 

"Ahl" said the grocer, "I thought I knew his features, 
like. He takes ajfter his mother's femilv: she was a Dod- 
8on. He's a fine, straight youth; what^s he been brought 
up to ?" 

" Oh ! to turn up his nose at his father's customers, and be 
a fine gentleman — ^not much else, I think." 

Tom, roused from his dream of the future to a thorough 
consciousness of the present, made all the greater haste to 
reach the warehouse offices of Guest & Co., where he expect- 
ed to find his uncle Deane. But this was Mr. Deane's morn- 
ing at the bank, a clerk told him, with some contempt for his 
ignorance : Mr. Deane was not to be found in River Street on 
a Thursday morning. 

At the bank Tom was admitted into.the private room where 
his uncle was, immediately after sending in his name. Mr. 
Deane was auditing accounts ; but he looked up as Tom en- 

12 



208 THE MILL OH THB WLOeO. 

tered, and, putting oat his hand, said, ^ WeiD, Tom, nothing 
firesh the matter at home, I hope ? How's your &ther ?" 

^^ Much the same, thank yon, nncle,'' said Tom, feeling nenr- 
ons. ^ But I want to spc^ to you, please, when you're at 
Uberty." 

^ Sit down, sit down," said Mr. Deane, relapshig into his ac- 
counts, in which he and the managing derk remained so i^ 
sorbed for the next half hour tluit Tom began to wonder 
whether he should have to sit in this way till the bank closed 
— there seemed so little tendency toward a conclusion in the 
quiet monotonous procedure of these sleek, prosperous men of 
business. Would nis uncle give him a place in the bank? it 
would be very dull, prosy work, he thought, writing there for- 
ever to the loud clicking of a time-piece. He preferred some 
other way of getting nch. But at last there was a change: 
his uncle took a pen and wrote something with a flourish at 
the end. 

" You'll just step up to Terry's now, Mr. Spence, will you ?" 
said Mr. Deane, and ttie dock suddenly became less loud and 
deliberate in Tom's ears. 

"Well, Tom," said Mr. Deane, when they were alone, turn- 
ing his substantial person a little in his chair, and taking out 
his snuff-box, " what's the business, mv boy — ^what's the Dusi- 
ness?" Mr. Deane, who had heard tram his wife what had 

Eassed the day before, thought Tom was come to appeal to 
im for some means of averting the sale. ^ 

" I hope you'll excuse me for troubling you, unde," said 
Tom, coloring, but speaking in a tone which, though tremu- 
lous, had a certain proud independence in it, "but I thought 
you were the best person to advise me what to do." 

"Ah?" said Mr. Deane, reserving his pinch of snufi^ and 
looking at Tom with new attention ; " let us hear." 

" I want to get a situation, uncle, so that I may earn some 
money," said Tom, who never fell into circumlocution. 

"A situation ?" said Mr. Deane, and then took his pinch of 
snuff with elaborate justice to each nostril. Tom thought 
snuff-taking a most provoking habit. 

"Why, let me see — ^how old are you?" said Mr. Deane, as 
he threw himself backward again. 

" Sixteen — ^I mean, I am going in seventeen," said Tom, hop- 
ing his uncle noticed how much beard he had. 

"Let me see — ^your father had some notion of making you 
an engineer, I think ?" 

" But I don't think Lcould get any money at that for a long 
while, could I ?" 

" lliat's true ; but people don't get mudi money at any 



THB HILL ON THB FLOSS. 208 

thing, my boy, when they're only sixteen. You've had a good 
deal of schooling, however : I suppose you're pretty well up 
in accounts, eh? You understand book-keeping?" 

" No," said Tom, rather falteringly. " 1 was in Practice. 
But Mr. Stelling says I write a good hand, uncle. That's my 
writing," added Tom, laying on the table a copy of the list he 
had made yesterday. 

"Ah! that's good — that's good. But, you see, the best 
hand in the world '11 not get you a better place than a copy- 
ing-clerk's, if you know nothing of book-keeping — ^nothing of 
accounts. And a copying-^^lerk's a cheap article. But what 
have you been learning at school, then ?" 

Mr. Deane had not occupied himself with methods of educa- 
tion, and had no precise conception of what went forward in 
expensive schools. 

"We learned Latin," said Tom, pausing a little between 
each item, as if he were turning over the books in his school- 
desk to assist his memory — " a good deal of Latin ; and the 
last year I did Themes, one week in Latin and one in English ; 
and Greek and Roman History ; and Euclid ; and I began Al- 
gebra, but I left it off again ; and we had one day every week 
for Arithmetic. Then I used to have drawing-lessons; and 
there were several other books we either read or learned out 
o^ English Poetry, and HorsB PaulinsB, and Blair's Rhetoric, 
the last half." 

Mr. Deane tapped his snuff-box again, and screwed up his 
mouth : he felt in the position of many estimable persons when 
they had read the New Tariff and found how many conunod- 
ities were imported of which they knew nothing: like a cau- 
tions man of business, he was not going to speak rashly of a 
raw material ia which he had no experience. But the pre- 
sumption was, that if it had been good for any thing, so suc- 
cessnil a man as himself would hardly have been ignorant of 
it. About Latin he had an opinion, and thought that in case 
of another war, since people would no longer wear hair-pow- 
der, it would be well to put a tax upon Latin, as a luxury 
much run upon by the higher classes, and not telling at all on 
the ship-owning department. - But, for what he knew. Horse 
Paulinas might be something less neutral. On the whole, this 
list of acquirements gave him a sort of repulsion toward poor 
Tom. 

** Well," he said at last, in rather a cold, sardonic tone, 
"you've had three years at these things — ^you must be pretty 
strong in 'em. Hadn't you better take up some line where 
th^ll come in handy?" 

Tom colored, and burpt out, with new energy, 



204 THB MILL ON THX FLOBS* 

^ Fd rather not have any employment of that sort, micle. I 
don't like Latin and those things. I don't know what I could 
do with them unless I went as usher in a school, and I don't 
Imow them well enough-for that ; besides,! would as soon car- 
ry a pair of panniers. I don't want to be that sort of person. 
I should like to enter into some business where I can get on— 
a manly business, where I should have to look after things, and 
get credit for what I did. And I shall want to keep my moth- 
er and sister." 

^^ Ah ! young gentleman," said Mr. Deane, with that tend- 
ency to repress youthful hopes which stout and successful men 
of fifty find one of their easiest duties, ^^ that's sooner said than 
done — sooner said than done." 

"But didn't y(m get on in that way, unde?" said Tom, a 
little irritated that Mr. Deane did not enter more rapidly into 
his views. " I mean, didn't you rise from one place to anoth- 
er through your abilities and good conduct ?" 

"Ay, ay, sir," said Mr. Deane, spreading himself in his chair 
a little, and entering with great readiness into a retrospect of 
his own career. "But I'll tell you how I got on. It wasn't 
by getting astride a stick, and thinking it would turn into a 
horse if I sat on it long enough. I kept my eyes and ears 
open, sir, and I wasn't too fond of my own back, and I made 
my master's interest my own. Why, only looking into what 
went on in the mill, I found out how there was a waste of five 
hundred a year that might be hindered. Why, sir, I hadn't 
more schooling to begin with than a charity-boy ; but I saw 
pretty soon that I couldn't' get on far without mastering ac- 
counts, and I learned 'em between working hours, after I'd 
been unlading. Look here." Mr. Deane opened a book, and 
pointed to the page. " I write a good hand enough, and FU 
match any body at all sorts of reckoning by the head, and I 
got it all by hard work, and paid for it out of my own earnings 
—often out of my own dinner and supper. And I looked into 
the nature of all the things we had to do with in the business, 
and picked up knowledge as I went about my work, and turn- 
ed it over in my head. Why, I'm no mechanic — ^I never pre- 
tended to be — ^but I've thought of a thing or two that the me- 
chanics never thought of, and it's made a fine difference in our 
returns. And there isn't an article shipped or unshipped at 
our wharf but I know the quality of it. If I got places, sir, it 
was because I made myseu fit for 'em. K you want to dip 
into a round hole, you must make a ball of yourself— that s 
where it is." 

Mr. Deane tapped his box again. He had been led on by 
pure enthusiasm in his subject, and had really forgotten what 



THB MHJLr ON THX ITiOBS. 205 

bearing this retrospective survey had on his listener. He had 
found occasion for saying the same thing more than once be- 
fore, and was not distinctly aware that he had not his port 
wine before him. 

" Well, uncle," said Tom, with a slight complaint in his tone, 
"that's what I should like to do. Can't -Tget on in the same 
way?" 

" In the same way?" said Mr. Deane, eyin^ Tom with quiet 
deliberation. " There go two or three questions to that, Mas- 
ter Tom. That depends on what sort of material you are, to 
begin with, and whether you've been put into the right mill. 
But I'll tell you what it is : your father went the wrong way 
to work in giving vou an education. It wasn't my business, 
and I didn't interfere; but it is as I thought it would be. 
You've had a sort of learning that's all very well for a young 
fellow like our Mr. Stephen Guest, who'll have nothing to do 
but sign checks all his life, and may as well have Latin inside 
his head as any other sort of stuffing." 

"But, uncle," said Tom, earnestly, "I don't see why the 
Latin need hinder me from getting on in business. I shall soon 
forget it all ; it makes no difference to me. I had to do my 
lessons at school ; but I always thought they'd never be of any 
use to me afterward — ^I didn't care about tnem." 

"Ay, ay, that's all very well," said Mr. Dearie; "but it 
doesn't alter what I was going to say. Your Latin and rig- 
marole may soon dry off you, but you'll be but a bare stick 
after that. Besides, it has whitened your hands and taken the 
rough work out of you. And what do you know ? Why, 
you know nothing about book-keeping, to begin with, and not 
so much of reckoning as a conunon shopman. You'll have to 
begin at a low round of the ladder, let me tell you, if you 
mean to get on in life. It's no use forgetting the education 
your father's been paying for, if you don^t give yourself a new 
un." 

Tom bit his lips hard ; he felt as if the tears were rising, and 
he would rather die than let them. 

" You want me to help you to a situation," Mr. Deane went 
on ; " well, I've no fault to find with that. I'm willing to do 
something for you. But you youngsters nowadays think 
you're to begin with living well and working easy : you've no 
notion of running afoot before you get on horseback. Now, 
you must remember what "you are — you're a lad of sixteen, 
trained to nothing particular. There's he aps of your sort, like 
so many pebbles, made to fit in nowhere. Well, you mi^ht be 
apprenticed to some business — a chemist's and druggist s per- 
hiapB : your Latin might come in a bit there .... 



200 THX MILL ON THB VLOflS. 

Tom was going to speak, bnt Mr. Deane put tip his hand 
and said, 

^^ Stop ! hear what Fve got to say. Yon don't want to be 
a 'prentice — ^I know, I know — ^you want to make more haste 
— and you don't want to stand behind a counter. But ifyou're 
a copymg-derk, you'U have to stand behind a desk, and stare 
at your ink and paper all day : there isn't much outlook there, 
and you won't oe much wiser at the end of the year than at 
the beginning. The world isn't made of pen, ink, and paper, 
and if you're to get on in the world, young man, you must 
know what the world's made of. Now the best daance for 
you 'ud be to have a place on a wharf, or in a warehouse, where 
you'd learn the smell o' things ; but you wouldn't likie thi^ 
I'll be bound; you'd have to stand cold and wet, and be 
shouldered about by rough fellows. Tou're too fine a gentle- 
man for that." 

Mr. Deane paused and looked hard at Tom, who certainly 
felt some inward struggle before he could reply. 

^^I would rather do what will be best for me in the end, sir ; 
I would put up with what was disagreeable." 

" That's well, if you can cany it out. But you must remem^ 
ber it isn't only laying hold of a rope — ^you must go on pull- 
ing. It's the mistake you lads make that have got nothing 
either in your brains or your pocket, to think you've got a 
better start in the world if you stick yourselves in a place 
where you can keep your coats clean, and have the shop- 
wenches take you for fine gentlemen. That wasn't the way 
Z started, young man: when I was sixteen, my jacket smelt 
of tar, and I wasn't afraid of handling cheeses. That's the 
reason I can wear good broadcloth now, and have my legs 
under the same table with the heads of the best firms in St. 
Ogg's." 

Uncle Deane tapped his box, and seemed to expand a little 
under his waistcoat and gold chain as he squared his shoulders 
in the chair. 

"Is there any place at liberty that you know of now, undo, 
that I should do for ? I should like to set to work at once," 
said Tom, with a slight tremor in his voice. 

" Stop a bit — stop a bit ; we mustn't be in too great a hurry. 
You must bear in mind, if I put you in a place you're a bit 
young for, because you happen to be my nephew, I shall be 
responsible for you. And there's no better reason, you know, 
than your being my nephew, because it remains to be seen 
whether you're good for any thing." 

" I hope I should never do you any discredit, unde," said 
Tom, hurt, as all boys are at the statement of the unpleasant 



THE MILL OK THE FLOSS* 207 

tmth that people feel no ground for trusting them. "I care 
about my own credit too much for that." 

** Well done, Tom, well done I That's the right spirit, and 
I never refuse to help any body, if they've a mind to do them- 
selves justice. There's a young man of two-and-twenty I've 
got my eye on now. I shall do what I can for that young 
man — he's got some pith in him. But then, you see, he's made 
good use of his time — & first-rate calculator — can tell you the 
cubic contents of any thing in no time, and put me up the other 
day to a new market for Swedish bark: he's unconmionly 
knowing in manufactures, that young fellow." 

*'Fd better set about learning book-keeping, hadn't I, 
uncle ?" said Tom, anxious to prove his readiness to exert him- 
self 

"Tes, yes, you can't do amiss there. But ... ah! Spence, 
you're back again. Well, Tom, there's nothing more to be 
said just now, 1 think, and I must go to business again. Good- 
by. Remember me to your mother." 

Mr. Deane put out his hand with an air of friendly dismiss- 
al, and Tom had not courage to ask another question, especial- 
ly in the presence of Mr. Spence. So he went out again into 
the cold aajoip air. He had to call at his uncle Glegg's about 
the money in the Savings' Bank, and by the time he set out 
again the mist had thickened, and he could not see very far 
before him ; but going along River Street again, he was start- 
led, when he was within two yards of the projecting side of a 
shop window, by the words " Dorlcote Mill" in large letters 
on a hand-bill, placed as if on purpose to stare at him. It was 
the catalogue of the sale to t^e place the next week — ^it was 
a reason for hurrying faster out of the town. 

Poor Tom formed no visions of the distant future as he made 
his way homeward ; he only felt that the present was very- 
hard. It seemed a wrong toward him that his uncle Deane 
had no confidence in him— did not see at once that he should 
acquit himself well, which Tom himself was as certain of as of 
the daylight. Apparently he, Tom Tulliver, was likely to be 
held of small account in the world, and for the first time he 
felt a sinking of heart under the sense that he really was very 
ignorant, and could do very little. Who was that enviable 
young man, that could tell the cubic contents of things in no 
time, and make suggestions about Swedish bark ? Swedish 
bark! Tom had l^en used to be so entirely satisfied with 
himself in spite of his breaking down in a demonstration, and 
construing nunc iUaa promite vires, as " now promise those 
men •" but now he suddenly felt at a disadvantage, because he 
knew less than some one else knew. There must be a world 



20S THB lOLL OK THB FL06B. 

of things connected with that Swedish bark, which, if he asHLj 
knew them, might have helped him to get on. It would have 
been much easier to make a figure with a spirited horse and a 
new saddle. 

Two hours ago, as Tom was walking to St. Ogg's, he saw 
the distant future before him as he might have seen a tempt- 
ing stretch of smooth sandy beach beyond a belt of flinty 
shmgles ; he was on the grassy bank then, and thought the 
shingles might soon be passed. But now his feet were on the 
sharp stones ; the belt of shingles had widened, and the stretch 
of sand had dwmdled into narrowness. 

^^ What did my uncle Deane say, Tom?" said Maggie, put- 
ting her arm through Tom's as he was warming himself rather 
drearily by the kitchen fire. " Did he say he would give you 
a situation ?" 

" No, he didn't say that. He didn't quite promise me any 
thing ; he seemed to think I couldn't have a very good situa* 
tion. Tm too young." 

" But didn't he speak kindly, Tom?" 

" Kindly ? Pooh ! what's the use of taking about that ? I 
wouldn't care about his speaking kindly if I could get a situa- 
tion. But it's such a nuisance and bother — ^I've been at school 
all this while learning Latin and things — ^not a bit of good to 
me — and now my uncle says I must set about learning book- 
keeping and calculation, and those things. He seems to make 
out I'm good for nothing." 

Tom's mouth twitched with a bitter expression as he looked 
at the fire. 

" Oh what a pity we haven't got Dominie Sampson," said 
Maggie, who couldn't help mingling some gayety with liieir 
sadness. " K he had taught me book-keeping by double entry 
and after the Italian method, as he did Lucy Bertram, I could 
teach you, Tom." 

" You teach ! Yes, I dare say. That's always the tone you 
take," said Tom. 

*' Dear Tom, I was only joking," said Maggie, putting her 
cheek against his eoat-sleeve. 

" But it's always the same, Maggie," said Tom, with the 
little frown he put on when he was about to be justifiably se- 
vere. " You're always setting yourself up above me and every 
one else, and I've wanted to tell you about it several times. 
You ought not to have spoken as you did to my uncles and 
aunts — you should leave it to me to take care of my mother 
and you, and not put yourself forward. You think you know 
better than any one, but you're almost always wrong. I caa 
judge much better than you can." 



/ 



MILL OK THB ITLOSS. 209 

Poor Tom ! he had just come from being lectured and made 
to feel his inferiority : the reaction of his strong, self-asserting 
nature must take place somehow, and here was a case in which 
he could justly show himself dominant. Maggie's cheek flush- 
ed and her lip quivered with conflicting resentment and affec- 
tion, and a certain awe as well as admiration of Tom's firmer 
and more effective character. She did not answer immediate- 
ly ; very angry words rose to her lips, but they were driven 
back again, and she said at last, 

** You often think Fm conceited, Tom, when I don't mean 
what I say at all in that way. I don't mean to put myself 
above you — ^I know you behaved better than I did yesterday. 
But you are always so harsh to me, Tom." 

With the last words the resentment was rising again. 

" No, I'm not harsh," said Tom, with severe decision ; " Fm 
always kind to you ; and so I shall be — I shall always take 
care of you. But you must mind what I say." 

Their mother came in now, and Maggie rushed away, that 
her burst of tears, which she felt must come, might not happen 
till she was safe up stairs. They were very bitter tears : every 
body in the world seemed so harsh and unkind to Maggie : 
there was no indulgence, no fondness, such as she imagined 
when she fashioned the world afresh in her own thoughts. In / 
books there were people who were always agreeable or tender, ( 
and delighted to do things that made one happy, and who did 
not show their kindness by finding fault. The world butside 
the books was not a happy one, Maggie felt : it seemed to be \ 
a world where people behaved the best to those they did not 

Eretend to love, and that did not belong to them. And if life / 
as no love in it, what else was there for Maggie ? Nothing 
but poverty and the companionship of her mother's narrow 
grie»--perhaps of her father's heart-cutting childish depend- 
ence. There is no hopelessness so sad as that of early youth, 
when the soul is made up of wants, and has no long memories, 
no superadded life in the life of others, though we who look on 
think lightly of such premature despair, as if our vision of the 
future hghtened the blind sufferer's present. 

Maggie in her brown frock, with her eyes reddened and her 
heavy hair pushed back, looking from the bed where liier father 
lay to the dull walls of this sad chamber which was the centre 
01 her world, was a creature frill of eager, passionate longings 
for dl that was beautiful and glad ; thirsty for all knowledge ; 
with an ear straining after dreamy music that died away and 
would not come near to her ; with a blind, unconscious veam- 
ing for something that would link together the wonderful im- 



210 THX MILL ON THB V!L088. 

preadons of this mysterioiis life, and give her Bonl a senBe of 
home in it. 

No wonder, when there is this contrast between the out- 
ward and the inward, that painful collisions oome CKfit. 



CHAPTER VI. 

TENDING TO BEFUTE THB POPULAS PBBJUDIGB AGAINST THB 

PBESENT OF A POCKET-KNIFE. 

In that dark time of December the sale of the household 
fiimitnre lasted beyond the middle of the second day. 1^. 
Tulliver, who had begun, in his intervals, of consciousness, to 
manifest an irritability which often appeared to have as a di- 
rect effect the recurrence of spasmodic rigidity and insensibil* 
ity, had lain in this living death throughout the critical honn 
wnen the noise of the s£ue came nearest to his chamber. Mr. 
Tumbull had decided that it would be a less risk to let him 
remain where he was than to move him to Luke's cottage — a 
plan which the good Luke had proposed to Mrs. ToSiver, 
thinking it would be very bad if the master were *' to wakea 
up" at the noise of the sale ; and the wife and children had sat 
imprisoned in the silent chamber, watching the large prostrate 
figure on the bed, and trembling lest the blank &ce should sud- 
denly 6how some response to the sounds which fell on thdr 
own ears with such obstinate, painful repetition. 

But it was over at last — ^that time of importunate certainty 
and eye-straining suspense. The sharp sound of a voice, al- 
most as metallic as the rap that followed it, had ceased ; the 
tramping of footsteps on the gravel had died out. Mrs. Tnlli* 
ver's blonde face seemed aged ten years by the last thirty 
hours : the poor woman's mmd had been busy divining when 
her favorite things were being knocked down by the terrible 
hammer ; her heart had been fluttering at the thought that first 
one thing and then another had gone to be identified as hers 
in the hateM publicity of the Golden Lion ; and all the while 
she had to sit and make no sign of this inward agitation. Such 
thmgs bring lines in well-rounded faces, and broaden the streaks 
of white among the hairs that once looked as if they had been 
dipped in pure sunshine. Already, at three o'clock, Kezia, the 
good-hearted, bad-tempered housemaid, who regarded all peo- 
ple that came to the sale as her personal enemies, the dirt on 
whose feet was of a peculiarly vile quality, had begun to scrub 
and swill with an energy much assisted by a continual low 
muttering against "fo£s as came to buy up other folks's 



THB hhii ok thb floss. 211 

things," and made light of ^^ scrazing'' the tops of mahogany 
tables over which better folks than themselves had had to — 
suffer a waste of tissue through evaporation. She was not 
scrubbing indiscriminately, for there would be further dirt of 
the same atrocious kind made by people who had still to fetch 
away their purchases ; but she was bent on bringing the par- 
lor, where that ^^ pipe-smoking pig" the bailiff had sat, to such 
an appearance of scant comfort as could be given to it by clean- 
liness and the few articles of furniture bought in for tne fam- 
ily. Her mistress and the young folks should have their tea 
in it that night, Kezia was determined. 

It was between five and six o'clock, near the usual tea-time, 
when she came up stsdrs and said that Master Tom was want- 
ed. The person who wanted him was in the kitchen, and in 
the first moments, by the imperfect fire and candlelight, Tom 
had not even an indefinite sense of any acquaintance with the 
rather broad-set but active figure, perhaps two years older 
than himself, that looked at him with a pair of blue eyes set 
in a disk of freckles, and pulled some curly red locks with a 
strong intention of respect. A low-crowned oil-skin-covered 
hat, and a certain shiny deposit of dirt on the rest of the cos- 
tume, as of tablets prepared for writing upon, suggested a call- 
ing that had to do with boats ; but this did not help Tom's 
memory. 

**Sarvant, Mister Tom," said he of the red locks, with a 
smile which seemed to break through a self-imposed air of 
melancholy. "You don't know me again, I doubt," he went 
on, as Tom continued to look at him inquiringly ; " but Pd like 
to talk to you by yourself a bit, please." 

** There's a fire i' the parlor. Master Tom," said Kezia, who 
objected to leaving the kitchen in the crisis of toasting. 

"Come this way, then," said Tom, wondering if this young 
fellow belonged to Guest & Co.'s wh^; for his imagjnation 
ran continually toward that particular spot, and unclel>eane 
might any time be sending for him to say that there was a sit- 
uation at liberty. 

Hie bright me in the parlor was the only light that showed 
&e few chairs, the bureau, the carpetless floor, and the one 
table — ^no, not the one table ; there was a second table in a 
comer, with a large Bible and a few other books upon it. It 
was this new strange bareness that Tom felt first, before he 
thought of looking again at the face which was also lit up by 
the fire, and which stole a half-shy, questioning glance at him 
as the entirely strange voice said, 

" Why, you don't remember Bob, then, as you gen the pock- 
Ibr.Tom?" 



212 THB HILL ON THB TLOflS. 

The rongh-hflndled pocket-knife was taken out in the Bmiti 
moment, and the largest blade opened by way of irresistible 
demonstration. 

" What I Bob Jakin !" said Tom, not with any cordial de- 
light, for he felt a little ashamed of that early intimacy sym- 
bolized by the pocket-knife, and was not at all sure that Bob's 
motives K)r recalling it were entirely admirable. 

'' Ay, ay, Bob JsJdn — ^if Jakin it must be, 'cause there's so 
many Bobs, as you went arter the squerrils with that day as 
I plumped right down from the bough, and bruised my shins 
a good un ; but I got the squerril tight for all that, an' a scrat- 
ter it was. An' this littlish blade's broke, you see, but I 
wouldn't hev a new un put in, 'cause they might be cheatin' 
me an' givin' me another knife istid, for there isn't such a blade 
i' the country — it's got used to my hand, like. An' there was 
niver nobody else gen me nothin' but what I got by my own 
sharpness, only you, Mr. Tom ; if it wasn't Bill Fawks as gen 
me the terrier pup istid o' drowndin' it, an' I had to jaw him 
a good un afore he'd give it me." 

Bob spoke with a sharp and rather treble volubility, and got 
through his long speech with surprising dispatch, giving the 
blade of his knife an affectionate rub on his sleeve when he had 
finished. 

" Well, Bob," said Tom, with a slight air of patronage, the 
foregoing reminiscences having disposed him to be as friendly 
as was becoming, though there was no part of his acquaintance 
with Bob that he remembered better than the cause of their 
parting quarrel, "is there any thing I can do for you?" 

" Why, no, Mr. Tom," answered Bob, shutting up his knife 
with a click and returning it to his pocket, where he seemed 
to be feeling for something else. " 1 shouldn't ha' come back 
upon you now ye're i' trouble, an' folks say as the master, as I 
used to frighten the birds for, an' be flogged me a bit for fan 
when he catched me eatin' the turnip, as they say he'll niver 
lift up his yead no more — I shouldn't ha' come now to ax you 
to gi' me another knife, 'cause you gen me one afore. If a 
chap gives me one black eye, that's enough for me; I sha'n't 
ax him for another afore I sarve him out ; an' a good turn's 
worth as much as a bad un, anyhow. I shall niver grow 
down'ards again, Mr. Tom, an' you war the little chap as I 
liked the best when I war a little chap, for all you leathered 
me, and wouldn't look at me agam. There's Dick Brumby, 
there, I could leather him as much as I'd a mind ; but lors ! 
you get tired o' leatherin' a chap when you can niver make 
him see what you want him to shy at. I'n seen chaps as 'ud 
stand starin' at a bough till their eyes shot out afore they'd 



TBDEB MILL OH THB FLOSS. 218 

see as a bird's tail warn't a leafl It's poor work^oin' wi' such 
raff; but you war allays a rare un at shying, Tib. Tom, an' I 
could trusten to you for droppin' down wi' your stick in the 
nick o' time at a runnin' rat, or a stoat, or that, when I war 
Srbeatin' the bushes." 

Bob had drawn out a dirty cafivas bag, and would perhaps 
not have paused just then if Maggie had not entered the room 
and darted a look of surprise and curiosity at him, whereupon 
he pulled his red locks again with due respect. But tibe next 
moment the sense of the altered room came upon Maggie with 
a force that overpowered the thought of Bob s presence. Her 
eyes had immediately glanced from him to the place where 
the bookcase had hung : there was nothing now out the ob- 
long unfaded space on the wall, and below it the small table 
wim the Bible and the few other books. 

**0h, Tom," she burst out, clasping her hands, " where are 
the books? I thought my uncle Glegg said he would buy 
tj^emr-didn't he ? Are those all they've left us ?" 

*^ I su ppos e so," said Tom, with a sort of desperate indiffer- 
ence. ^^ Why should they buy many books when they bought 
so little furniture ?" 

" Oh but, Tom," said Maggie, her eyes filling with tears as 
she rushed up to the table to see what books had been rescued, 
" our dear old Pilgrim's Progress that you colored with your 
little paints ; and that picture of Pilgrim with a mantle on, 
looking just like a turtle — oh dear !" Maggie went on, half 
sobbing as she turned over the few books. ^^I thought we 
should never part with that while we lived : every thing is 
going away from us ; the end of our lives will have nothing in 
It like the beginning !" 

Maggie turned away from the table and threw herself into 
a chair with the big tears ready to roll down her cheeks — 
quite blinded to the presence of Bob, who was looking at her 
with the pursuant gaze of an intelligent dumb animal, with 
per oejp tions more perfect than his comprehension. 

** W ell. Bob," said Tom, feeling that the subject of the books 
was tmseasonable, ^^ I suppose you just came to see me because 
we're in trouble? That was very good-natured of you." 

*^ ril tell you how it is. Master Tom," said Bob, beginning 
to untwist his canvas bag. ^^ Tou see, Pn been with a barge 
this two 'ear — that's how Pn been gettin' my livin' — if it 
wasn't when I was tentin' the furnace, between whiles, at 
Torry's mill. But a fortni't ago I'd a rare bit o' luck— I allays 
thought I was a lucky chap, m 
catohed 
ry^i 




214 THB HILL ON THB VXiOBB. 

the genelman gen me ten suvreigns — ^he gen me 'em himself 
last week. An' he said first I was a sperrited chap ; but I 
knowed that afore ; but then he oats wi' the ten savreigns, 
an' that war smnmat new. Here they are — all but oneP 
Here Bob emptied the canvas bag on the table. '^ An' when 
I'd got 'em, my head was all of a boil like a kettle o' b^oth, 
thinMn' what sort o' life I should take to— -for there war a 
many trades Td tiiought on ; for as for the barge, Pm clean 
tired out wi't, for it pulls the days out till they are as long as 
pigs' chitterlings. An' I thought first Fd ha' ferrets an' do^ 
an' be a rat-ketcher ; an' then I thought as I should like a big- 
ger way o' life, as I didn't know so well ; for Pn seen to t& 
bottom o' rat-ketching ; an' I thought an' thought till at last I 
settled rd be a packman, for they're knowin' fellers, the pack- 
men are ; an' I'd canj the lightest things I could i' my {wck; 
an' there'd be a use jfor a feller's tongue, as is no use neither 
wi' rats nor barges. An' I should go about the country fir 
an' wide, an' come round the women wi' my tongue, an' get 
my dinner hot at the public — lors I it 'ud be a lovely life P 

Bob paused, and then said, with defiant decision, as if reso- 
lutely turning his back on that paradisaic picture, 

"But I don't mind about it not a chip! An' Fn changed 
one o' the suvreigns to buy my mother a goose for dinner, an' 
Fn bought a blue plush wescoat an' a seal-skm cap ; for if I 
meant to be a packman, Fd do it respectable. But I don't 
mind about it not a chip ! My yead isn't a turnup, an' I shall 
p'r'aps have a chance o^ dousing another fire afore long. Fm 
a lucky chap. So I'll thank you to take the nine suvreigns, 
Mr. Tom, and set yoursen up with 'em somehow — ^if it's true 
as the master's broke. They mayn't go fur enough, but they'll 
help." 

^ Tom was touched keenly enough to forget his pride and sus- 
picion. 

" You're a very kind fellow. Bob," he said, coloring, with 
that little, diffident tremor in his voice which gave a certain 
charm even to Tom's pride and severity, "and I sha'n't forget 
you again, though I didn't know you this evening. But I 
can't take the nine sovereigns. I should be taking your little 
fortune from you, and they wouldn't do me much good either." 

" Wouldn't they, Mr. Tom?" said Bob, regretfully. "Now 
don't say so 'cause you think I want 'em. I aren't a poor 
chap. My mother gets a good penn'orth wi' picking fi^sitners 
an' things ; an' if she eats nothin' but bread an' water, it runs 
to fat. All' Fm such a lucky chap ; an' I doubt you arent 
quite so lucky, Mr. Tom — ^th' old master isn't, anyhow — an* so 
you might take a slice o' my luck, an' no harm done* Lots I 



THB MILL ON THB FLOSS* 215 

I fonnd a leg o' pork V the river one day : it had tumbled oat 
o' one o' them romid-stemed Dutchmen, I'll be bonnd. Come, 
think better on it, Mr. Tom, for old 'quinetance sake, else I shaQ 
think you bear me a grudge." 

Bob pushed the sovereigns forward, but before Tom could 
speak, Maggie, clasping her hands, and looking penitently at 
Bob, said, 

" Oh, Fm so sorry, Bob — ^I never thought you were so good. 
Why, I think you're the kindest person m the world !?' 

Bob had not been aware of the injurious opinion for which 
Maggie was performing an inward act of penitence, but he 
smiled with pleasure at this handsome eulogy, especially from 
a young lass who, as he informed his mother that evening, had 
^' such uncommon eyes, they looked somehow as Ihey made him 
fed nohow." 

" No, indeed. Bob, I can't take them," said Tom ; " but don't 
think I feel your kindness less because I say no. I don't want 
to take any thing from any body, but to work my own way. 
And those sovereigns wouldn't help me much — ^they wouldn't, 
really — ^if 1 were to take them. Let me shake hands with you 
inst^id." 

Tom put out his pink pahn, and Bob was not slow to place 
his hard, grimy hand within it. 

*^ Let me put the sovereigns in the bag again," said Mag- 
gie; ^and you'll come and see us when you've bought your 
pack, Bob." 

"It's like as if Fd come out o' make-believe, o' purpose to 
show 'em you," said Bob, with an air of discontent, as Maggie 
gave him the bag again, ^^ a-taking 'em back i' tins way. lam 
a bit of a Do, you know ; but it isn't that sort o' Do : it's on'y 
when a feller's a big rogue, or a big flat, I like to let him in a 
hit, that's alL" 

*' Now don't you be up to any tricks. Bob," said Tom, " else 
you'll get transported some day." 

**No, no, not me, Mr. Tom," said Bob, with an air of cheer- 
fiil confidence. " There's no law agam' fleabites. If I wasn't 
to take a fool in now and then, he'd niver get any wiser. But, 
knrs f hev a suvreign to buy you and miss summat, on'y for a 
token— just to match my pocket-knife." 

While Bob was speaking he laid down the sovereign, and 
resolutely twisted up his bag again. Tom pushed back the 
gold and said, "No, indeed, Bob; thank you heartily; but I 
can't take it." And Maggie, taking it between her fingers, 
hdid it up to Bob, and said, more persuasively, 

" Not now — ^but perhaps another time. If ever Tom or my 
fitfher wants help that you can give, we'll let you know — ^won't 



216 THX MILL ON THB VL06B. 

we, Tom? That's what you would like — ^to have us always 
depend on you as a friend that we can go to— isn't it, Bob ?" 

^^ Yes, miss, and thank you," said Bob, reluctantly taking the 
money; "that's what I'd like — any thing as you like. An' I 
wish you good-by, miss, and good luck, Mr. Tom, and thank 
you for shaking hands wi' nie, ttwugh you wouldn't take the 
money." 

Kezia's entrance, with very black looks, to inquire if she 
shouldn't bring in the tea now, or whether the toast was to 
get hardened to a brick, was a seasonable check on Bob's flox 
of words, and hastened his parting bow. 



CHAPTER Vn. 

HOW A HEN TAKES TO STBATAGSM. 

The days passed, and Mr. Tulliver showed, at least to the 
eyes of the medical man, stronger and stronger symptoms of a 
gradual return to his normal condition : the paralytic obstroO' 
tion was, little by little, losing its tenacity, and the mind was 
rising from under it with fitfiu struggles, like a living creature 
making its way from under a great snowdrift, that slides and 
dides again, and shuts up the newly-made opening. 

Time would have seemed to creep to the watchers by the 
bed if it had only been measured by the doubts distant hope 
which kept count of the moments within the chamber ; but it 
was measured for them by a fast-approaching dread which 
made the nights come too quickly. While ]M&. Tulliver was 
slowly becoming himself again, his lot was hastening toward 
its moment of most palpable change. The taxing-masters had 
done their work like any respectable gunsmith conscientiously 
preparing the musket, that, duly pointed by a brave arm, will 
spoil a life or two. Allocaturs, filing of bills in Chancery, de- 
crees of sale, are legal chain-shot or bomb-shells that can never 
hit a solitary mark, but must fall with widespread shattering. 
So deeply inherent is it in this life of ours that men have to 
suffer for each other's sins, so inevitably diffusive is human 
suffering, that even justice makes its victims, and we can con- 
ceive no retribution that does not spread beyond its mark in 
pulsations of unmerited pain. 

By the beginning of the second week in January the bills 
were out advertising the sale, under a decree of Chancery, of 
Mr. Tulliver's farming and other stock, to be followed by a sale 
of the mill and land, held in the proper after-dinner hour at the 
Golden Lion. The miller himsftlf^ unaware of the lapse of time^ 



THE MILL OK THE FLOSS. 217 

fanded himself still in that first stage of his misfortunes when 
expedients might be thought of; and often in his conscious 
hours talked in a feeble, disjointed manner of plans he would 
carry out when he " got well." The wife and children were 
not without hope of an issue that would at least save Mr. Tul- 
liver from leaving the old spot, and seeking an entirely strange 
life. For uncle Deane had been induced to interest himself m 
this stage of the business. It would not, he acknowledged, be 
a bad speculation for Guest and Co. to buy Dorlcote Mill, and 
carry on the business, which was a good one, and might be in- 
creased by the addition of steam-power, in which case Tulliver 
might be retained as manager. Still Mr. Deane would say 
nothing decided about the matter : the fact that Wakem held 
the mortgage on the land might put it into his head to bid for 
the whole estate, and further, to outbid the cautious firm of 
Guest and Co., who did not carry on business on sentimental 
grounds. Mr. Deane was obliged to tell Mrs. Tulliver some- 
thing to that effect when he rode over to the mill to inspect 
the books in company with Mrs. Glegg ; for she ha& observed 
that " if Guest and Co. would only think about it, Mr.Tulliver's 
father and grandfather had been carrying on Dorlcote Mill long 
before the oil-mill of that firm had been so much as thought 
of." Mr. Deane, in reply, doubted whether that was precisely 
the relation between the two mills which would determine 
their value as investments. As for uncle Glegg, the thing lay 
quite beyond his imagination ; the good-natured man felt sin- 
cere pity for the Tulliver family, but his money was all locked 
up in excellent mortgages, and he could run no risk; that 
would be xmfair to his own relatives ; but he had made up his 
mind Tulliver should have some new flannel waistcoats which 
he had himself renounced in favor of a more elastic commodity, 
and that he would buy Mrs. Tulliver a pound of tea now and 
then ; it would be a journey which his benevolence delighted 
in beforehand to carry the tea, and see her pleasure on being 
assured it was the best black. 

Still it was clear that Mr. Deane was kindly disposed toward 
the Tullivers. One day he had brought Lucy, who was come 
home for the Christmas hoUdays, and the little blonde angel- 
head had pressed itself against Mag^e's darker cheek with 
many kisses and some tears. These fair slim daughters keep 
up a tender spot in the heart of many a partner in a respecta- 
ble firm, and perhaps Lucy's anxious pitying questions about 
her poor cousms helped to make uncle Deane more prompt in 
fiadmg Tom a temporary place in the warehouse, and in put- 
ting him in the way of getting evening lessons in book-keep- 
ing and calculation. 



218 THB HILL ON THB FLOSS. 

That might have cheered the lad and fed his hopes a Htile, 
if there had not come at the same time the much-dreaded blow 
of finding tJiat his father must be a bankrupt after all ; at least, 
the creditors must be asked to take less than their due, which 
to Tom's untechnical mind was the same thing as bankruptcy. 
His father must not only be said to have " lost his property," 
but to have " failed" — the word that carried the worst oblo- 
quy to Tom's mind. For when the defendant's claim for costs 
had been satisfied, there would remain the friendly bill of Mr. 
Gore, and the deficiency at the bank, as well as the other debts, 
which would make the assets shrink into unequivocal dii^ro- 
portion : " not more than ten or twelve shillings in the pound," 
predicted Mr. Deane, in a decided tone, tightening his lips; 
and the words fell on Tom like a scalding liquid, leaving a 
continual smart. 

He was sadly in want of something to keep up Mq spirits a 
little in the unpleasant newness of his position, suddenly trans- 
ported from the easy carpeted ennm of study-hours at Mr. 
Stelling's, and the busy idleness of castle-building in a ^^last 
half" at school, to the companionship of sacks and hides, and 
bawling men thundering down heavy weights at his elbow. 
The first step toward getting on in the world was a chill, 
dusty, noisy affair, and implied going without one's tea in or- 
der to stay in St. Ogg's and have an evening lesson from a one- 
armed elderly clerk, in a room smelling strongly of bad tobac- 
co. Tom's young pink and white face had its colors very much 
deadened by the time he took off his hat at home, and sat 
down with keen hunger to his supper. No wonder he was a 
little cross if his mother or Maggie spoke to him. 

But all this time Mrs. Tulliver was brooding over a scheme 
by which she, and no one else, would avert the result most to 
be dreaded, and prevent Wakem from entertaining the purpose 
of bidding for the mill. Imagine a truly respectable and ami- 
able hen, by some portentous anomaly taking to reflection and 
inventing combinations by which she might prevail on Hodge 
not to wring her neck, or send her and her chicks to market : 
the result could hardly be other than much cackling and flut- 
tering. Mrs. Tulliver, seeing that every thing had gone wrong, 
had begun to think that she had been too passive in life, and 
that, if she had applied her mind to busmess, and taken a 
strong resolution now and then, it would have been all the bet- 
ter for her and her family. Nobody, it appeared, had thought 
of going to speak to Wakem on this busmess of the mill ; and 
yet, Mrs. Tulliver reflected, it would have been quite the 
shortest method of securing the right end. It would have 
been of no use, to be sure, for Mr. Tulliver to go, even if he had 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. -219 

,been able and willing ; for he had been " going to law against 
Wakem" and abusing him for the last ten years ; Wakem was 
always likely to have a spite against him. And now that Mrs. 
Tulliver had come to the conclusion that her husband was very 
much in the wrong to bring her into this trouble, she was in- 
clined to think that his opinion of Wakem was wrong too. 
To be sure, Wakem had "put the bailies in the house, and sold 
them up ;" but she supposed he did that to please the man 
that lent Mr. Tulliver the money, for a lawyer had more folks 
to please than one, and he wasn't likely to put Mr. TuUiver, 
who had gone to law with him, above every body else in the 
world. The attorney might be a very reasonable man — ^why 
not ? He had married a Miss Clint, and at the time Mrs. Tul- 
liver had heard of that marriage, the summer when she wore 
her blue satin spencer, and had not yet any thoughts of Mr. 
Tulliver, she knew no harm of Wakem. And certainly toward 
herself — ^whom he knew to have been a Miss Dodson — ^it was 
out of all possibility that he could entertain any thing but good- 
will, when it was once brought home to his ohservation that 
she, for her part, had never wanted to go to law, and, indeed, 
was at present disposed to take Mr. Wakem's view of all sub- 
jects rather than her husband's. In fact, if that attorney saw 
a respectable matron like herself disposed " to give him good 
words,'' why shouldn't he Hsten to her representations ? For 
she would put the matter clearly before him, which had never 
been done yet. And he would never go and bid for the mill 
on purpose to spite her, an innocent woman, who thought it 
likely enough that she had danced with him in their youth at 
Squire Darleigh's, for at those big dances she had often and 
often danced with young men whose names she had forgotten. 
Mrs. Tulliver hid these reasonings in her own bosom ; for 
when she had thrown out a hint to Mr. Deane and Mr. Glegg 
that she wouldn't mind going to speak to Wakem herself, they 
had said, "No, no, no," and "Pooh I pooh!" and "Let Wakem 
alone," in the tone of men who were not likely to give a candid 
attention to a more definite exposition of her project ; still less 
dared she mention the plan to Tom and Maggie, for " the chil- 
dren were always so against every thing their mother said ;" 
and Tom, she observed, was almost as much set against Wakem 
as his father was. But this unusual concentration of thought 
naturally gave Mrs. Tulliver an unusual power of device and 
determination ; and a day or two before the sale, to be held at 
the Golden Lion, when there was no longer any time to be lost, 
she carried out her plan by a stratagem. There were pickles 
in question — a large stock of pickles and ketchup which Mrs. 
Tulliver possessed, and which Mr. Hyndmarsh, the ^toc^^^ 



220 THB MILL ON THB FLOfiB. 

would certainly pnrcliase if she coiild transact the btus&ness in 
a personal interview, so she would walk with Tom to St. Oge's 
that morning; and when Tom urged that she might let uie 
pickles be at present — ^he didn't like her to go about just yet — 
she appeared so hurt at this conduct in her son, contradicting 
her about pickles which she had made after the family receipts 
inherited n'om his own grandmother, who had died when his 
mother was a little girl, that he gave way, and they walked 
together until she turned toward Danish Street, where Mr. 
Hyndmarsh retailed his grocery, not far from the offices of 
Mr. Wakem. 

That gentleman was not yet come to his office : would Mrs. 
TuUiver sit down by the fire in his private room and wait for 
him ? She had not long to wait before the punctual attorney 
entered, knitting his brow with an examining glance at tie 
stout blonde woman who rose, courtesying deferentially — a 
tallish man, with an aquiline nose and abundant iron-gray hair. 
You have never seen Mr. Wakem before, and are possibly won- 
dering whether he was really as eminent a rascal, and as crafty, 
bitter an enemy of honest humanity in general, and of Mr. Tul- 
liver in particular, as he is represented to be in that eidolon 
or portrait of him which we have seen to exist in the miller's 
mind. 

It is clear that the irascible miller was a man to interpret 
any chance shot that grazed him as an attempt on his owii life, 
and was liable to entanglements in this puzzling world, which, 
due consideration had to his own infallibility, required the hy- 
pothesis of a very active diabolical agency to explain them. 
It is still possible to believe that the attorney was not more 
guilty toward him than an ingenious machine, which performs 
its work with much regularity, is guilty toward the rash man 
who, venturing too near it, is caught up by some fly-wheel or 
other, and suddenly converted into unexpected sausages. 

But it is really impossible to decide this question by a glance 
at his person : the lines and lights of the human countenance 
are like other symbols — ^not always easy to read without a 
key. On an a priori view of Wakem's aquiline nose, which 
offended Mr. Tulliver, there was not more rascality than in the 
shape of his stiff shirt collar, though this too, along with his 
nose, might have become fraught with damnatory meaning 
when once the rascality was asceii;ained. 

" Mrs. TuUiver, I think ?" said Mr. Wakem. 

" Yes, sir. Miss Elizabeth Dodson as was." 

" Pray be seated. You have some business with me ?" 

" Well, sir, yes," said Mrs. Tulliver, beginning to feel alarm- 
ed at her own courage, now she was resSy in presence of the 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 221 

formidable man, and reflecting that she had not settled with 
herself how she should begin. Mr. Wakem felt in his waist- 
coat pockets, and looked at her in silence. 

" I hope, sir," she began at last — " I hope, sir, you're not 
a-thinking as I bear you any ill will because o' my husband's 
losing his lawsuit, and the bailies being put in, and the linen 
being sold— oh dear I .... for I wasn't brought up in that 
way. I'm sure you remember my father, sir, for he was dose 
friends with Sqmre Darleigh, and we allays went to the dances 
there — ^the Miss Dodsons — ^nobody could be more looked on — 
and justly, for there was four of us, and you're quite aware as 
Mrs. Glegg and Mrs. Deane are my sisters. And as for going 
to law, and losiug money, and having sales before you're dead, 
I never saw any thing o' that before I was married, nor for a 
long while after. And I'm not to be answerable for my bad 
luck i' marrying out o' mv own family into one where the 
goings-on was different. And as for being drawn in t' abuse 
you as other folks abuse you, sir, that I niver was, and nobody 
can say it of me." 

Mrs. Tulliver shook her head a little, and looked at the hem 
of her pocket-handkerchief. 

" I've no doubt of what you say, Mrs. TuUiver," said Mr. 
Wakem, with cold politeness. " But you have some question 
to ask me ?" 

" Well, sir, yes. But that's what I've said to myself— I've 
said you'd have some nat'ral feeling ; and as for my husband, 
as hasn't been himself for this two months, I'm not a-defending 
him, in no way, for being so hot about th' erigation — ^not but 
what there's worse men, for he never wronged nobody of a 
shilling nor a penny, not willingly ; and as for his fieriness and 
lawing, what could I do ? And him struck as if it was with 
death when he got the letter as said you'd the hold upo' the 
land. But I can't believe but what you'll behave as a gentle- 
man." 

" What does all this mean, Mrs. Tulliver ?" said Mr. Wakem, 
rather sharply. " What do you want to ask me ?" 

" Why, sir, if you'll be so good," said Mrs. Tulliver, starting 
a little, and speaking more hurriedly, "if you'll be so good as 
not to buy the mill an' the land — ^the land wouldn't so much 
matter, only my husband 'uU be like mad at your having it." 

Something like a new thought flashed across Mr. Wakem's 
face as he said, "Who told you I meant to buy it?" 

" Why, sir, it's none o' my inventing ; and I should never 
ha' thought of it, for my husband, as ought to know about the 
law, he allays used to say as lawyers had never no call to buy 
any thing — either lands or houses — ^for they allays got 'em into 



/ 



222 THB MILL ON THB FLOSS. 

their hands other ways. An' I should thmk that 'ud be the 
way with you, sir ; and I niver said as you'd be the man to do 
contrairy to that." 

"Ah! well, who was it that did say so?" said Wakem, 
opening his desk, and moving thin^ about, with the accom- 
paniment of an almost inaudible whistle. 

" Wby, sir, it was Mr. Glegg and Mr. Deane, as have all the 
management ; and Mr. Deane thinks as Guest & Co. 'nd buy 
the mill and let Mr. Tulliver work it for 'em, if you didn't bid 
for it and raise the price. And it 'ud be such a thing for my 
husband to stay where he is, if he could get his living ; for it 
was his father's before him, the mill was, and his grandfather 
built it, though I wasn't fond o' the noise of it when first I was 
married, for there was no mills in our family — ^not the Dod- 
sons — and if I'd known as the mills had so much to do with 
the law, it wouldn't have been me as 'ud have been the first 
Dodson to marry one ; but I went into it blindfold, that I did, 
^rigation and every thing." 

" What ! Guest and Co. would keep the mill in their own 
hands, I suppose, and pay your husband wages ?" 

" Oh dear, sir, it's hard to think of," said poor Mrs. Tulliver, 
a little tear making its way, " as my husband should take 
wage. But it 'ud look more like what used to be, to stay at 
the mill than to go any where else ; and if you'll only think — 
if you was to bid for the mill and buy it, my husband might 
be struck worse than he was before, and niver get better again 
as he's getting now." 

" Well, but if I bought the null, and allowed your husband 
to act as my manager in the same way, how then ?" said Mr. 
Wakem. 

" Oh, sir, I doubt he could niver be got to do it, not if the 
very mill stood still to beg and pray of him. For your name's 
like poison to him, it's so as never was ; and he looks upon it 
as you've been the ruin of him all along, ever since you set the 
law on him about the road through the meadow — ^that's eight 
year ago, and he's been going on ever since — ^as I've allays 
told him he was wrong . . ." 

"He's a pig-headed, foul-mouthed fooll" burst out Mr. 
Wakem, forgetting himself. 

" Oh dear, sir I" said Mrs. Tulliver, frightened at a result so 
different from the one which she had fixed her mind on; "I 
wouldn't wish to contradict you, but it's like enough he's 
changed his mind with this illness — ^he's forgot a many things 
he used to talk about. And you wouldn't like to have a corpse 
on your mind if he was to die; and thev do say as it's dlays 
unlucky when Dorloote Mill changes hands, and the water 



THB MILL ON THB FLOSS. 223 

might all run away, and then . . . not as Fm wishing yon any 
ill Tuck, sir, for I forgot to tell you as I remember your wed- 
ding as if it was yesterday — ^Mrs. Wakem was a Miss Clint, I 
know that ; and my boy, as there isn't a nicer, handsomer, 
straighter boy nowhere, went to school with your son . . .'* 

Mr. Wakem rose, opened the door, and called to one of his 
clerks. 

" You must excuse me for interrupting you, Mrs. Tulliver*; 
I have business that must be attended to, and I think there is 
nothing more necessary to be said." 

" But if you would bear it in mind, sir," said Mrs. Tulliver, 
rising, " and not run against me and my children ; and Pm not 
denying Mr. Tulliver's been in the wrong, but has been pun- 
ished enough, and there's worse men, for it's been giving to 
other folks has been his fault. H«'s done nobody any harm 
but himself and his family — ^the more*s the pity ; and I go and 
look at the bare shelves every day, and think where all my 
things used to stand." 

** Yes, yes, Fll bear it in mind," said Mt. Wakem, hastily, 
looking toward the open door. 

"And if you'd please not to say as I've been to speak to 
you, for my son 'ud be very angry with me for demeaning 
myself, I know he would, and I've trouble enough without 
being scolded by my children." 

Poor Mrs. Tulliver's voice trembled a little, and she could 
make no answer to the attorney's " good morning," but courte- 
sied and walked out in silence. 

** Which day is it that Dorlcote Mill is to be sold ? Where's 
the bill ?" said Mr. Wakem to his clerk when they were alone. 

*' Next Friday is the day — ^Friday, at six o'clock." 

*' Oh I just run to Winship's, the auctioneer, and see if he's 
at home. I have some busmess for him : ask him to come 
up." 

Although, when Mr. Wakem entered his oflSce that morn- 
ing, he had no intention of purchasing Dorlcote Mill, his mind 
was already made up : Mrs. Tulliver had suggested to him 
several determining motives, and his mental glance was very 
rapid : he was one of those men who can be prompt without 
being rash, because their motives run in fixed tracks, and they 
have no need to reconcile conflicting arms. 

To suppose that Wakem had the same sort of inveterate 
hatred toward Tulliver that Tulliver had toward him, would 
be like supposing that a pike and a roach can look at each oth- 
er from a similar point of view. The roach necessarily abhors 
the mode in which the pike gets his living, and the pike is 
likely to think nothing further e^n of the most indigaasi^T^*dJE:SQL 



224 THB MILL ON THE FL0B8* 

than that he is excellent good eating ; it could only be when 
the roach choked him that the pike could entertain a strcHig 
personal animosity. If Mr. Tulhver had ever seriously injured 
or thwarted the attorney, Wakem would not have renised him 
the distinction of being a special object of his vindictiveness. 
But when Mr. Tulliver called Wakem a rascal at the market 
dinner-table, the attorney's clients were not a whit inclined to 
withdraw their business from him ; and if^ when Wakem him- 
self happened to be present, some jocose cattle-feeder, stimu- 
lated by opportunity and brandy, made a thrust at him by al- 
luding to old ladies' wills, he maintained perfect sangfiroidj and 
knew quite well that the majority of substantial men then pres- 
ent were perfectly content with the feet that " Wakem was 
Wakem;" that is to say, a man who always knew the step- 
ping-stones that would carry him through very muddr bits of 
practice. A man who had made a large fortune, had a hand- 
some house among the trees at Tofton, and decidedly the fuiest 
stock of port wine in the neighborhood of St. Ogg's, was likely 
to feel himself on a level with public opinion. And I am not 
sure that even honest Mr. Tulliver himself, with his general 
view of law as a cockpit, might not, under opposite circum- 
stances, have seen a fine appropriateness in the trntii that 
** Wakem was Wakem," since I have understood from per- 
sons versed in history that mankind is not disposed to look 
narrowly into the conduct of great victors when their victory 
is on the right side. Tulliver, then, could be no obstruction 
to Wakem ; on the contrary, he was a poor devil whom the 
lawyer had defeated several times — a hot-tempered fellow, who 
would always give you a handle against him. Wakem's con- 
science was not uneasy because ne had used a few tricks 
against the miller : why should he hate that unsuccessful plain- 
tiff—that pitiable, furious bull entangled in the meshes of a 
net? 

Still, among the various excesses to which human nature is 
subject, moraJists have never numbered that of being too fond 
of the people who openly revile us. The successful Yellow 
candidate for the borough of Old Topping, perhaps, feels no 
pursuant meditative hatred toward the Blue editor who con- 
soles his subscribers with vituperative rhetoric against Yellow 
men who sell their country, and are the demons of private life ; 
but he might not be sorry, if law and opportunity favored, to 
kick that Blue editor to a deeper shade of his favorite color. 
Prosperous men take a little vengeance now and then, as they 
take a diversion, when it comes easily in their way, and is no 
hinderance to business ; and such small unimpassioned revenges 
have. an enormous effect in life, running through all degrees of 



THE HnX ON THE FLOSS. 225 

pleasant infliction, blocking the fit men out of places, and black- 
ening characters in unpremeditated talk. Still more, to see 
people who have been only insignificantly offensive to us re- 
duced in life and humiliated without any special efforts of 
ours, is apt to have a soothing, flattering influence: Provi- 
dence, or some other prince of this world, it appears, has un- 
dertaken the task of retribution for us ; and really, by an 
agreeable constitution of things, our enemies, somehow, dorCt 
prosper. 

Wakem was not without this parenthetic vindictiveness to- 
ward the uncomplimentary miller ; and, now Mrs. Tulliver had 
put the notion mto his head, it presented itself to him as a 
pleasure to do the very thing that would cause Mr. Tulliver 
the most deadly mortification — and a pleasure of a complex 
kind, not made up of crude malice, but mingling with it the 
relish of self-approbation. To see an enemy humiliated gives 
a certain contentment, but this is jejune compared with the 
highly blent satisfaction of seeing him humiliated by your be- 
nevolent action or concession on his behalf. This is a sort of 
revenge which falls into the scale of virtue, and Wakem was 
not without an intention of keeping that scale respectably fill- 
ed. He had once had the pleasure of putting an old enemy 
of his into one of the St. Ogg's alma-houses, to the rebuilding 
of which he had given a large subscription ; and here was an 
opportunity of providing for another by making him his own 
servant. Such things give a completeness to prosperity, and 
contribute elements of agreeable consciousness that are not 
dreamed of by that short-sighted, overheated vindictiveness, 
which goes out of its way to wreak itself in direct injury. 
And TiSliver, with his rough tongue filed by a sense of obliga- 
tion, would make a better servant than any chance fellow v3io 
was cap-in-hand for a situation. Tulliver was known to be a 
man of proud honesty, and Wakem was too acute not to be- 
lieve in the existence of honesty. He was given to observing 
individuals, not of judging them according to maxims, and no 
one knew better than he that all men were not like himself. 
Besides, he intended to overlook the whole business of land 
and mill pretty closely : he was fond of these practical rural 
niatters. But there were good reasons for purchasing Dorl- 
cote Mill quite apart from anjr benevolent vengeance on the 
miller. It was really a capital investment ; besides, Guest and 
Co. were going to bid for it. Mr. Guest and Mr. Wakem 
were on friendly dining terms, and the attorney liked to pre- 
dominate over a ship-owner and mill-owner who was a little 
too loud in the town affairs as well as in his table-talk. For 
Wakem was not a mere man of business: b^ \?w^ <5fifj>ss^«t^ 

K2 



226 THE MILL OK THE FLOSS. 

a pleasant fellow in the upper circles of St. Ogg's — chatted 
amusingly over his port wine, did a little amateur mrming, and 
had certainly heen an excellent husband and father : at church, 
when he went there, he sat under the handsomest of mural 
monuments erected to the memory of his wife. Most men 
would have married again under his circumstances, but he was 
said to be more tender to his deformed son than most men 
were to their best-shapen offspring. Not that Mr. Wakem 
had not other sons besides Philip ; but toward them he held 
only a chiaroscuro parentage, and provided for them in a grade 
of fife duly beneath his own. In this fact, indeed, there lay 
the clenching motive to the purchase of Dorlcote MOl. While 
Mrs. Tulliver was talking, it had occurred to the rapid-minded 
lawyer, among all the other circumstances of the case, that 
this purchase would, in a few years to come, furnish a highly 
suitable position for a certain favorite lad whom he meant to 
bring on in the world. 

These were the mental conditions on which Mrs. Tulliver 
had undertaken to act persuasively, and had failed ; a fact 
which may receive some illustration from the remark of a great 
philosopher, that fly-fishers fail in preparing their bait so as to 
make it alluring in the right quarter, for want of a due ac- 
quaintance with the subjectivity of fishes. 



CHAPTER Vm. 

DAYLIGHT ON THE WRECK. 

It was a clear frosty January day on which Mr. Tulliver 
first came down stairs ; the bright sun on the chestnut boughs 
and the roofs opposite his window had made him impatiently 
declare that he would be caged up no longer: he thought 
every where would be more cheery under this sunshine than 
his bedroom; for he knew nothing of the bareness below, 
which made the flood of sunshine importunate, as if it had an 
unfeeling pleasure in showing the empty places, and the marks 
where well-known objects once had been. The impression on 
his mind that it was but yesterday when he received the letter 
from Mr. Gore was so continually implied in his talk, and the 
attempts to convey to him the idea that many weeks had pass- 
ed and much had happened since then, had been so soon swept 
away by recurrent forgetfulness, that even Mr. Turnbull had 
begun to despair of preparing him to meet the facts by previ- 
ous knowledge. The full sense of the present could only be 
imparted graduaJlj by new experience — ^not by mere words. 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 221 

which must remain weaker than the impressions left by the 
old experience. This resolution to come down stairs was 
heard with trembling by the wife and children. Mrs. Tulliver 
said Tom must not go to St. Ogg's at the usual hour — ^he must 
wait and see his father down stairs ; and Tom complied, though 
with an intense inward shrinking from the painful scene. The 
hearts of all three had been more deeply dejected than ever 
during the last few days. For Guest and Co. had not bo ugh t 
the mill : both mill and land had been knocked down to Wa- 
kem, who had been over the premises, and had laid before Mr. 
Deane and Mr. Glegg, in Mrs. Tulliver's presence, his willing- 
ness to employ Mr. Tulliver, in case of his recovery, as a mana- 
ger of the business. This proposition had occasioned much 
family debating. Uncles and aunts were almost unanimously 
of opinion that such an offer ought not to be rejected when 
there was nothing in the way but a feeling in Mr. Tulliver's 
mind, which, as neither aunts nor uncles shared it, was regard- 
ed as entirely unreasonable and childish — ^indeed, as a trans- 
ferring toward Wakem of that indignation and hatred which 
Mr. Tulliver ought properly to have directed against himself 
for his general quarrelsomeness, and his special exhibition of 
it in going to law. Here was an opportunity for Mr. Tulliver 
to -provide for his wife and daughter without any assistance 
from his wife's relations, and without that too evident descent 
into pauperism which makes it annoying to respectable people 
to meet the degraded member of the limily by the wayside. 
Mr. Tulliver, Mrs. Glegg considered, must be made to feel, 
when he came to his right mind, that he could never humble 
himself enough ; for that had come which she had always fore- 
seen would come of his insolence in time past "to them as 
were the best friends he'd got to look to." Mr. Glegg and Mr. 
Deane were less stem in their views, but thejr both of them 
thought Tulliver had done enough harm by his hot-tempered 
crotchets, and ought to put them out of the question wnen a 
livelihood was offered him: Wakem showed a right feeling 
about the matter — he had no grudge against Tulliver. Tom 
had protested against entertaining the proposition : he shouldn't 
like his father to be under Wakem ; he thought it would look 
mean-spirited ; but his mother's main distress was the utter 
impossibility of ever " turning Mr. Tulliver round about Wa- 
kem," or getting him to hear reason — ^no, thev would all have 
to go and live in a pigsty on purpose to spite Wakem, who 
spoke " so as nobody could be fairer." Indeed Mrs. Tulliver's 
mind was reduced to such confusion by living in this strange 
medium of unaccountable sorrow, against which she corLtMass^r 
ally appealed by ajaking, "Oh dear^^N^Vi^X) h,aoe\ S^ovi^ \ft ^a^ 



228 THS lOLL ON THS FLOSS. 

serve worse than other women ?" that Maggie began to sus- 
pect her poor mother's wits were quite going. 

" Tom/' she said, when they were out of their father's room 
together, ^^ we must try to make father understand a little of 
what has happened before he goes down stairs. But we must 
get my mother away. She will say something that will do 
harm. Ask Kezia to fetch her down, and keep her engaged 
with something in the kitchen." 

Kezia was equal to the task. Having declared her intention 
of staying till the master could get about again, ^^ wage or no 
wage," she had found a certain recompense in keeping a strong 
hand over her mistress, scolding her for " moithering" herself 
and going about all day without changing her cap, and look- 
ing as if she was '^ mushed." Altogether, this time of trouble 
was rather a Satumalian time to Kezia : she could scold her 
betters with imreproved freedom. On this particular occa- 
sion there were drying clothes to be fetched in : she wished to 
know if one pair of hands could do every thing in-doors and 
out, and observed that she should have thought it would be 
good for Mrs.Tulliver to put on her bonnet, and get a breath 
of fresh air by doing that needful piece of work. Poor Mrs. 
Tulliver went submissively down stairs : to be ordered about 
by a servant was the last remnant of her household dignities 
— she would soon have no servant to scold her. 

Mr. Tulliver was resting in his chair a little after the fatigue 
of dressing, and Maggie and Tom were seated near hini, when 
Luke entered to ask if he should help master down stairs. 

"Ay, ay, Luke, stop a bit — sit down," said Mr. Tulliver, 
pointing his stick toward a chair, and looking at him with that 
pursuant gaze which convalescent persons often have for those 
who have tended them, reminding one of an infant gazing 
about after its nurse; for Luke had been a constant night* 
watcher by his master's bed. 

" How's the water now, eh, Luke ?" said Mr. Tulliver. " Dix 
hasn't been choking you up again, eh ?" 

" No, sir, it's all right." 

"Ay, I thought not: he won't be in a hurry at that again, 
now Riley's been to settle him. That was what I said to Kiley 
yesterday .... I said . . . ." 

Mr. Tulliver leaned forward, resting his elbows on the arm- 
chair, and looking on the ground as if in search of something 
— striving after vanishing images like a man struggling against 
a doze. Maggie looked at Tom in mute distress — their fa- 
ther's miad was so far off the present, which would by-and-by 
thrust itself on his wandering consciousness ! Tom was almost 
ready to rush away, with that impatience of painful emotion 



THS MILL ON THB FLOSS. 229 

which makes one of the differences between youth and maiden, 
man and woman. 

" Father," said Maggie, laying her hand on his, " don't you 
remember that Mr. Riley is dead ?" 

" Dead ?" said Mr. Tidliver, sharply, looking in her face with 
a strange, examining glance. 

" Yes, he died of apoplexy nearly a year ago ; I remember 
hearing you say you had to pay money for him ; and he left his 
daughters badly off—one of them is under-teacher at MissFir- 
niss's, where I've been to school, you know . . . ." 

" Ah ?" said her father, doubtfully, still looking in her face. 
But as soon as Tom began to speak he turned to look at him 
with the same inquiring glances, as if he were rather surprised 
at the presence of these two young people. Whenever his 
mind was wandering in the far past, he fell into this oblivion 
of their actual faces : they were not those of the lad and the lit- 
tle wench who belonged to that past. 

"It's a long while since you had the dispute with Dix, fer 
ther," said Tom. "I remember your talking about it three 
yeara ago, before I went to school at Mr. Stelling's. I've been 
at school there three years ; don't you remember ?" 

Mr. Tulliver threw himself back again, losing the childish 
outward glance under a rush of new ideas, which diverted him 
from external impressions. 

** Ay, ay," he said, after a minute or two, "Tve paid a deal 
o' money .... I was determined my son should have a good 
eddication : I'd none myself, and I've felt the miss of it. And 
he'll want no other fortm' : that's what I say .... if Wakem 
was to get the better of me again . . . ." 

The thought of Wakem roused new vibrations, and after a 
moment's pause he began to look at the coat he had on, and to 
feel in his side-pocket. Then he turned to Tom, and said in his 
old sharp way, " Where have they put Gore's letter ?" 

It was close at hand in a drawer, for he had often asked for 
it before. 

"You know what there is in the letter, fether ?" said Tom, 
as he gave it to him. 

" To be sijre I do," said Mr. Tulliver, rather angrily. " What 
o' that ? If Furley can't take to the property, somebody else 
can : there's plenty o' people in the world besides Furley. But 
it's hindering — ^my not being well : go and tell 'em to get the 
horse in the gig, Luke ; I can get down to St. Ogg s well 
enough — Gore's expecting me." 

" No, dear father I" Maggie burst out entreatingly, " it's a 
very long while since all that : you've been ill a great many 
weeks — ^more than two months — every tlQXi^\& ^^dsy^^^^^ 



230 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

/ 

Mr. Tulliver looked at them all three alternately with a start- 
led gaze : the idea that much had happened of which he knew 
nothing had often transiently arrested him before, bat it came 
upon lum now with entire novelty. 

*'Yes, father," said Tom, in answer to the gaze. "Tou 
needn't trouble your mind about business until you are quite 
well ; every thing is settled about that for the present — about 
the mill, and the land, and the debts." 

*' What's settled, then ?" said his fether, angrily. 

"Don't you take on too much about it, sir," said Luke. 
" You'd ha' paid ivery body if you could — ^that's what I said 
to Master Tom — I said you'a ha' paid ivery body if you 
could." 

Good Luk^ felt, after the manner of contented hard-work- 
ing men whose lives have been spent in servitude, that sense 
of natural fitness in rank which made his master's downfall a 
tragedy to him. He was urged, in his slow way, to say some* 
thing that would express his share in the family sorrow, and 
these words, which he had used over and over again to Tom 
when he wanted to decline the ftill payment of his fifty pounds 
out of the children's money, were the most ready to his 
tongue. They were just the words to lay the most pmnftd 
hold on his master's bewildered mind. 

" Paid every body," he said, with vehement agitation, his 
face flushing, and his eye lighting up. " Why .... what 
.... have they made me a bankrupt .^" 

" Oh father, dear father I" said Maggie, who thought that 
terrible word really represented the fact, "bear it well — ^be- 
cause we love you — ^your children will always love you. Tom 
will pay them all ; he says he will, when he's a man." 

She felt her father beginning to tremble ; his voice trembled 
too, as he said, after a few moments, 

" Ay, my little wench, but I shall never live twice o'er." 

" But perhaps you will live to see me pay every body, & 
ther," said Tom, speaking with a great effort. 

" Ay ! my lad," said Mr. Tulliver, shaking his head slowly, 
"but what's broke can never be whole again : it 'ud be your 
doing, not mine." Then, looking up at him, " You're only six- 
teen — ^it's an up-hill fight for you — ^but you mustn't throw it 
at your father ; the raskills have been too many for him. Pve 
given you a good eddication — ^that'll start you." 

Something in his throat half choked the last words ; the flush 
which had alarmed his children because it had so often pre- 
ceded a recurrence of paralysis had subsided, and his face look- 
ed pale and tremulous. Tom said nothing ; he was still strug- 
gUng against his inclination to rush away. His fistther remain- 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 231 

ed quiet a minute or two, but his mind did not seem to be 
wandering again. 

" Have they sold me up, then ?" he said, more calmly, as if 
he were possessed simply by the desire to know what had hap- 
pened. 

" Every thing is sold, father ; but we don't^know all about 
the mill and the land yet," said Tom, anxious to ward off any 
question leading to the fact that Wakem was the purchaser. 

" You must not be surprised to see the room look very bare 
down stairs, father," said Maggie ; "but there's your chair and 
the bureau — they're not gone." 

" Let us go— help me down, Luke — ^I'll go and see every 
thing," said Mr. TuUiver, leaning on his stick, and stretching 
out his other hand toward Luke. 

"Ay, sir," said Luke, as he gave his arm to his master, 
" you'll make up your mind to't a bit better when you've seen 
ivery thing — ^you'll get used to't. That's what my mother 
says about her shortness o' breath — she says she's made friends 
wi't now, though she fought agin it sore when it fust come 
on." 

Maggie ran on before to see that all was right in the dreary 
parlor, where the fire, dulled by the frosty sunshine, seemed 
part of the general shabbiness. She turned her father's chair, 
and pushed aside the table to make an easy way for him, and 
then stood with a beating heart to see him enter and look 
round for the first time. Tom advanced before him, carrying 
the leg-rest, and stood beside Maggie on the hearth. Of those 
two young hearts Tom's suffered the most unmixed pain, for 
Maggie, with all her keen susceptibility, yet felt as if the sor- 
row made larger room for her love to flow in, and gave breath- 
ing-space to her passionate nature. No true boy feels that : 
he would rather go and slay the Nemean lion, or perform any 
round of heroic labors, than endure perpetual appeals to his 
pity for evils over which he can make no conquest. 

Mr. Tulliver paused just inside the door, resting on Luke, 
and looking round him at all the bare places, which for him 
were 'filled with the shadows of departed objects — the daily 
companions of his life. His faculties seemed to be renewing 
their strength from getting a footing on this demonstration of 
the senses. 

" Ah I" he said, slowly, moving toward his chair, " they've 
sold me up ... . they've sold me up." 

Tlien seating himself, and laying down his stick, while Luke 
left the room, he looked round again. 

" They'n left the big Bible," he said. " It's got every thin^ 
in — ^when I was bom and married — bring it i3i^^TLOT[i, 



232 THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 

The quarto Bible was laid open before him at the fly-leaf^ 
and while he was reading witn slowly-traveling eyes, Mrs. 
Tulliver entered the room, but stood in mute surprise to find 
her husband down already, and with the great Bible before 
him. 

" Ah !" he said, looking at a spot where his finger rested, 
"my mother was Margaret Beaton — she died when she was 
forty-seven : hers wasn't a long-lived fisimilv : we're our moth- 
er's children — Gritty and me are; we shall go to our last bed 
before long." 

He seemed to be pausing over the record of his sister's 
birth and marriage, as if it were suggesting new thoughts to 
them; then he suddenly looked up at Tom, and said, in a 
sharp tone of alarm, 

" They haven't come upo' Moss for the money as I lent him, 
have they ?" 

" No, father," said Tom, " the note was burnt." 

Mr. Tulliver turned his eyes on the page again, and present- 
ly said, 

" Ah ! . . . . Elizabeth Dodson .... it's eighteen years since 
I married her . . . ." 

" Come next Ladyday," said Mrs. Tulliver, going up to his 
side and looking at the page. 

Her husband fixed his eyes earnestly on her face. 

" Poor Bessy," he said, " you was a pretty lass then— every 
body said so — and I used to think you kept your good looks 
rarely. But you're sorely aged .... don't you bear me iU will 
.... I meant to do well by you .... We promised one anoth- 
er for better or for worse. 

" But I never thought it 'ud be so for worse as this," sjud 
poor Mrs. Tulliver, with the strange, scared look that had 
come over her of late, " and my poor father gave me away . . . 
and to come on so all at once . . . ." 

" Oh mother," said Maggie, " don't talk in that way." 

" No, I know you won't let your poor mother speak .... 
that's been the way all my life .... your father never mind- 
ed what I said .... it 'ud have been o' no use for me to beg 
and pray .... and it 'ud be no use now, not if I was to go 
down o' my hands and knees . . . ." 

" Don't say so, Bessy," said Mr. Tulliver, whose pride, in 
these first moments of humiliation, was in abeyance to the 
sense of some justice in his wife's reproach. " If there's any 
thing left as I could do to make you amends, I wouldn't say 
you nay." 

" Then we might stay here and get a living, and I might 
keep among my own sisters .... and me been such a good 



THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 233 

wife to you, and never crossed you from week's end to week's 
end .... and they all say so ... . they say it 'ud be nothing 
but right .... only you're so turned against Wakem." 

" Mother," said Tom, severely, " this is not the time to talk 
about that." 

" Let her be," said Mr. TuUiver. " Say what you mean, 
Bessy." 

" Why, now the mill and the land's all Wakem's, and he's 
got every thing in his hands, what's the use o' setting your 
lace against him when he says you may stay here, and speaks 
as fair as can be, and says you may manage the business, and 
have thirty shilling a-week, and a horse to ride about to mar- 
ket ? And where have we got to put our heads ? . We must 
go into one o' the cottages in the village .... and me and my 
children brought down to that .... and all because you must 
set your mind against folks till there's no turning you." 

Mr. Tulliver had sunk back in his chair tremblmg. 

" You may do as you like wi' me, Bessy," he said, in a low 
voice ; " I'n been the bringing of you to poverty .... this 
world's too many for me .... Pm naught but a bankrupt — 
it's no use standing up for any thing now." 

" Father," said Tom, " I don't agree with my mother or my 
uncles, and I don't think you ought to submit to be under 
Wakem. I get a pound a-week now, and you can find some- 
thing else to do when you get well." 

"Say no more, Tom, say no more ; I've had enough for this 
day. Give me a kiss, Bessy, and let us bear one another no 

ill will : we shall never be young again This world's 

been too many for me." 



CHAPTER IX. 

AN ITEM ADDED TO THE FAMILY BE6ISTEB. 

That first moment of renunciation and submission was fol- 
lowed by days of violent struggle in the miller's mind, as the 
gradual access of bodily strength brought with it increasing 
ability to embrace in one view all the conflicting conditions 
under which he found himself. Feeble limbs easily resim 
themselves to be tethered, and when we are subdued by sick- 
ness it seems possible for us to fulfill pledges which the old 
vigor comes back and breaks. There were times when poor 
Tulliver thought the fulfillment of his promise to Bessy was 
something quite too hard for human nature : he had promised 
her without knowing what she was going to say : she might aa 



234 THS MILL OK THE FL068. 

well have asked him to carry a ton weight on his back. But, 
again, there were many feelings argoing on her side,' besides the 
sense that life had been made hard to her by having married 
him. He saw a possibility, by much pinching, of saving mon- 
ey out of his salary toward paying a second dividend to his 
creditors, and it would not be easy elsewhere to get a situation 
such as he could fill. He had led an easy life, ordering much 
and working little, and had no aptitude for any new business. 
He must perhaps take to day-labor, and his wife must have help 
from her sisters — a prospect doubly bitter to him, now they 
had let all Bessy's precious things be sold, probably because 
they liked to set her against him by making her feel that he 
had brought her to that pass. He listened to their admonitory 
talk, when they came to urge on him what he was bound to 
do for poor Bessy's sake, with averted eyes, that every now 
and then flashed on them ftirtively when their backs were turn- 
ed. Nothing but the dread of needing their help could have 
made it an easier alternative to take their advice. 

But the strongest influence of all was the love of the old 
premises where he had run about when he was a boy, just as 
Tom had done after him. The Tullivers had lived on this spot 
for generations, and he had sat listening on a low stool on win- 
ter evenings while his father talked of the old half-timbered 
mill that had been there before the last great floods, which 
damaged it so that his grandfather pulled it down and built 
the new one. It was when he got able to walk about and look 
at all the old objects that he felt the strain of this clinging af- 
fection for the old home as part of his life — ^part of himself. He 
couldn't bear to think of himself living on any other spot than 
this, where he knew the sound of every gate and door, and felt 
that the shape and color of every roof, and weather-stain, and 
broken hillock was good, because his growing senses had been 
fed on them. Our instructed vagrancy, which has hardly time 
to Hnger by the hedgerows, but runs away early to the trop- 
ics, and is at home with palms and banyans — which is nouri^- 
ed on books of travel, and stretches the theatre of its imagina- 
tion to the Zambesi, can hardly get a dim notion of what an 
old-fashioned man like Tulliver felt for this spot, where all his 
memories centred, and where life seemed like a familiar smooth- 
handled tool that the fingers clutch with loving ease. And 
just now he was living in that freshened memory of the far- 
off time which comes to us in the passive hours of recovery 
from sickness. 

"Ay, Luke," he sjdd, one afternoon, as he stood looking 
over the orchard gate, " I remember the day they planted those 

"te-trees. My father waa a Wge ToaiCL lot i^lmting — ^it was 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 235 

like a merry-making to him to get a cart full o' young trees — 
and I used to stand i' the cold with him, and follow him about 
like a dog." 

Then he turned round, and, leaning agaiast the gate-post, 
looked at the opposite buUdings. 

"The old mill 'ud niiss me, I think, Luke. There's a story 
as when the mill changes hands the river's angry— I've heard 
my father say it many a time. There's no telling whether 
there mayn't be summat in the story, for this is a puzzling 
world, and Old Harry's got a finger in it : it's been too many 
for me, I know." 

" Ay, sir," said Luke, with soothing sympathy, " what wi' 
the rust on the wheat, an' the firin' o' the ricks an' that, as Tve 
seen i' my time, things often looks comical : there's the bacon 
fat wi' our last pig runs away like butter ; it leaves naught but 
a scratchia'." 

** It's just as if it was yesterday, «iow," Mr. Tulliver went on, 
" when my father began the malting. I remember, the day 
they finished the malt-house, I thought summat great was to 
come of it ; for we'd a plum-pudding that day and a bit of a 
feast, and I said to my mother — she was a fine dark-eyed wom- 
an, my mother was — ^the little wench 'ull be as like her as two 
peas." Here Mr. Tulliver put his stick between his legs, and 
took out his snuff-box, for the greater enjojnnent of this anec- 
dote, which dropped from him in fragments, as if he every oth- 
er moment lost narration in vision. " I was a little chap no 
higher much than my mother's knee — she was sore fond of us 
chddren. Gritty and me — ^and so I said to her, ' Mother,' I said, 
* shall we have plum-pudding every day because o' the malt- 
house ?' She used to tell me o' that till her dying day. She 
was but a young woman when she died, my mother was. But 
it's forty good year since they finished the malt-house, and it 
isn't many days out of 'em all as I haven't looked out into the 
yard there the first thing in the morning — all weathers, from 
year's end to year's end. I should go off my head in a new 
place. I should be like as if I'd lost my way. It's all hard, 
whichever way I look at it — ^the harness 'ull gall me— but it 
'ud be summat to draw along the old road istead of a new un." 

" Ay, sir," said Luke, " you'd be a deal better here nor in 
some new place. I can't abide ne^^ places mysen : things is 
allays awk'ard-^narrow-wheeled waggms, belike, and the stiles 
all another sort, an' oat-cake i' some places, tow'rt th' head o' 
the Floss, 

"But 
DMiing you do with a lad-^and I must help 
Tou'll have a worse place.'* 




286 THB MILL ON THE FLOfiS. 

" Ne'er mind, sir," said Luke, " I sha'n't plagae mysen. Pn 
been wi' vou twenty year, an' you can't get twenty year wi' 
whislin' wr 'em, no more nor you can make the trees grow: 
you mun wait till God A'mighty sends 'em. I can't abide new 
victual nor new faces, Zcan't — ^you niver know but what tiey'fl 
gripe you." 

The walk was finished in silence after this, for Luke had dis: 
burdened himself of thoughts to an extent that left his conver- 
sational resources quite barren, and Mr. Tulliver had relapsed 
from his recollections into a psdnful meditation on the choice 
of hardships before him. Maggie noticed that he was unusu- 
ally absent that evening at tea, and afterward he sat leaning 
forward in his chair, looking at the ground, moving his lips, 
and shaking his head from time to time. Then he looked hsurd 
at Mrs. Tulliver, who was knitting opposite him, then at Mag- 
gie, who, as she bent over her sewing, was intensely conscious 
of some drama going forward in her father's mind. Suddenly 
he took up the poker and broke the large coal fiercely. 

" Dear heart I Mr. Tulliver, what can you be thinking of?" 
said his wife, looking up in alarm : " it's very wasteful, break- 
ing the coal, and we've got hardly any large coal left» and I 
don't know where the rest is to come from.'' 

" I don't think you're quite so well to-night, are you, fe- 
ther ?" said Maggie ; " you seem uneasy." 

" Why, how is it Tom doesn't come ?" said Mr. Tulliver, im- 
patiently. 

" Dear heart ! is it time ? I must go and get his supper," 
said Mrs. Tulliver, laying down her knitting and leaving the 
room. 

"It's nigh upon half past eight," said Mr. Tulliver. "He'll 
be here soon. Go — go and get the big Bible, and open it at 
the beginning, where every thing's set down. And get the 
pen and ink." 

Maggie obeyed, wondering ; but her father gave no further 
orders, and only sat listening for Tom's footfall on the gravel, 
apparently irritated by the wind, which had risen and was roar- 
ing so as to drown all other sounds. There was a strange 
light in his eyes that rather frightened Maggie : she began to 
wish that Tom would come too. 

" There he is, then," said Mr. Tulliver, in an excited way, 
when the knock came at last. Maggie went to open the door, 
but her mother came out of the kitchen hurriedly, saying, 
" Stop a bit, Maggie, I'll open it." 

Mrs. Tulliver had begun to be a little frightened at her boy, 
but she was jealous of every office others did for him. 

"Your supper's ready by the kitchen fire, my boy," she 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 287 

said, as he took off his hat and coat. " You shall have it by 
yourself, just as you like, and I won't speak to you." 

" I think my father wants Tom, mother," said Maggie ; " he 
must come into the pai*lor first." 

Tom entered with his usual saddened evening face, but his 
eyes fell immediately on the open Bible and the inkstand, and 
he glanced with a look of anxious surprise at his father, who 
was saying, 

" Come, come, you're late — ^I want you." 

" Is there any thing the matter, father ?" said Tom. 

" You sit down, all of you," said Mr. TuUiver, peremptorily. 
" And, Tom, sit down here ; I've got something for you to 
write i' the Bible." 

They all three sat down, looking at him. He began to speak 
slowly, looking first at his wife. 

" I've made up my mind, Bessy, and I'll be as good as my 
word to you. There's the same grave made for us to lie down 
in, and we mustn't be bearing one another ill will. I'll stop in 
the old place, and I'll serve under Wakem — and I'll serve him 
like an honest man : there's no TuUiver but what's honest, 
mind that, Tom." Here his voice rose : " They'll have it to 
throw up against me as I paid a dividend ; but it wasn't my 
fault — it was because there's raskills in the world. They've 
been too many for me, and I must give in. FU put my neck 
in harness — ^for you've a right to say as I've brought you into 
trouble, Bessy — and I'll serve him as honest as if he was no 
raskill : I'm an honest man, though I shall never hold my head 
up no more. I'm a tree as is broke — & tree as is broke." 

He paused and looked on the ground. Then suddenly rais- 
ing his head, he said, in a louder yet deeper tone, 

" But I won't forgive him ! I know what they say — ^he nev- 
er meant me any harm : that's the way Old Harry props up 
the raskills : he's been at the bottom of every thing — ^but he's 
a fine gentleman — I know, I know. I shouldn't ha' gone to 
law, they say. But who made it so as there was no arbitratin', 
and no justice to be got ? It signifies nothing to him — I know 
that : he's one o' them fine gentlemen as get money by doing 
I business for poorer folks, and when he's made beggars of 'em 
I he'U give 'em charity. I won't forgive him I I wish he might 
be punished with shame till his own son 'ud like to forget him. 
I wish he may do summat as they'd make him work at the 
treadmill I But he won't ; he's too big a raskill to let the law 
lay hold on him. And you mind this, Tom, you never forgive 
hun neither, if you mean to be my son. There'll maybe come 
a time when you may make him feel — ^it'U never come to me 
— Tn got my head under the yoke. Now vrtvt^r— ^tvX^SxS^ 
the Bible." 



238 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

^^ Oh, father, what ?" said Mag^e, sinking down by his knee 
pale and trembling. ^' It's wicked to curse and bear malice." 

" It isn't wicked, I tell you," said her father, fiercely. " It's 
wicked as the raskills should prosper — ^it's the devil's doing. 
Do as I tell you, Tom. Write." 

" What am I to write, father ?" ssdd Tom, with gloomy sub- 
mission. 

" Write as your father, Edward Tulliver, took service under 
John Wakem, the man as had helped to ruin him, because Fd 
promised my wife to make her what amende I could for her 
trouble, and because I wanted to die in th' old place, where I 
was bom and my father was bom. Put that i' the right words 
— ^you know how — and then write as I don't forgive Wakem 
for all that ; and for all I'll serve him honest, I wish evil may 
befall him. Write that." 

There was a dead silence as Tom's pen moved along the 
paper : Mrs. Tulliver looked scared, and Maggie trembled like 
a leaf. 

" Now let me hear what you've wrote," said Mr. Tulliver. 
Tom read aloud slowly. 

" Now write — write as you'll remember what Wakem's done 
to your father, and you'll make him and his feel it, if ever the 
day comes. And sign your name Thomas Tulliver." 

"Oh no, father, dear father!" said Maggie, almost choked 
with fear. " You shouldn't make Tom write that." 

" Be quiet, Maggie," said Tom. " I shaU write it." 



BOOK FOURTH. 

THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION 
CHAPTER L 

A VABIATION OF PEOTESTANTISM UNKNOWN TO BOSSUET. 

JoxjENETiNG down the Rhone on a summer's day, you have 
perhaps felt the sunshine made dreary by those ruined villages 
which stud the banks in certain parts of its course, telling how 
the swift river once rose, like an angry, destroying god, sweep^ 
ing down the feeble generations whose breath is in their nos- 
trus, and making their dwellings a desolation. Strange con- 
trast, you may have thought, between the effect produced on 
us by these dismal remnants of commonplace houses, which in 
their best days were but the sign of a sordid life, belonging in 
all its details to our own vulgar era, and the effect produced 
by those ruins on the castled Rhine, which have crumbled and 
mellowed into such harmony with the green and rocky steeps, 
that they seem to have a natural fitness, like the mountain 

Eine ; nay, even in the day when they were built they must 
ave had this fitness, as if they had been raised by an earth- 
bom race, who had inherited from their mighty parent a sub- 
lime instinct of form. And that was a day of romance I If 
those robber barons were somewhat grim and drunken ogres, 
they had a certain grandeur of the wild beast in them — ^they 
were forest boars with tusks, tearing and rending, not the or- 
dinary domestic grunter ; they represented the demon forces 
forever in collision with beauty, virtue, and the gentle uses of 
life ; they made a fine contrast in the picture with the wander- 
ing minstrel, the soft-lipped princess, the pious recluse, and the 
timid IsraeUte. That was a time of color, when the sunlight 
fell on glancing steel and floating banners ; a time of adventure 
and fierce struggle — ^nay, of living religious art and religious 
enthusiasm ; for were not cathedrals built in those days, and 
did not great emperors leave their Western palaces to die be- 
fore the mfidel strong-holds in the sacred East ? Therefore it 
is that these Rhine castles thrill me with a sense of poetry \ 



240 THE MILL ON THE FL068. 

they belong to the grand historic life of humanity, and raise 
up for me the idsion of an epoch. But these dead-tinted, hol- 
low-eyed, angular skeletons of villages on the Rhone oppress 
me with the feeling that human life — ^very much of it — is a 
narrow, ugly, groveling existence, which even calamity does 
not elevate, but rather tends to exhibit in all its bare ynlgarity 
of conception ; and I have a cruel conviction that the lives 
these ruins are the traces of were part of a gross sum of ob- 
scure vitality, that will be swept into the same oblivion with 
the generations of ants and beavers. 

Perhaps something akin to this oppressive feeling may have 
weighed upon you in watching this old-fashioned £unily life 
on the banks of the Floss, which even sorrow hardly slices 
to lifl above the level of the tragi-comic. It is a sordid life, 
you say, this of the Tullivers and Dodsons, irradiated by no 
sublime principles, no romantic visions, no active, sel^renonnc- 
ing faith — amoved by none of those wild, uncontrollable pas- 
sions which create the dark shadows of misery and crime — 
without that primitive rough simplicity of wants, that hard, 
submissive, ill-paid toil, that childlike spelling-out of what Na- 
ture has written, which gives its poetry to peasant life. Here 
one has conventional worldly notions and habits without in- 
struction and without polish — surely the most prosaic form of 
human life: proud respectability m a gig of unfashionable 
build : worldliness without side-dishes. Observing these peo- 
ple narrowly, even when the iron hand of misfortune has 
shaken them from their unquestioning hold on the world, one 
sees little trace of religion, still less of a distinctively Christian 
creed. Their belief in the Unseen, so far as it manifests itself 
at all, seems to be rather of a pagan kind ; their moral notions, 
though held with strong tenacity, seem to have no standard 
beyond hereditary custom. You could not live among such 
people ; you are stifled for want of an outlet toward something 
beautiful, great, or noble; you are irritated with these dull 
men and women, as a kind of population out of keeping with 
the earth on which they live — with this rich plain where the 
great river flows forever onward, and links the small pulse of 
the old English town with the beatings of the world's mighty 
heart. A vigorous superstition, that lashes its gods or lashes 
its own back, seems to be more congruous with the mystery 
of the human lot than the mental condition of these emmet- 
like Dodsons and Tullivers. 

I share with you this sense of oppressive narrowness ; but 
it is necessary that we should feel it, if we care to understand 
how it acted on the lives of Tom and Maggie — ^how it has act- 
on yoimg natures in many generations, tlxat in the onwM^ 



THE MILL ON THE 7L0SS« 241 

tendency of human things have risen above the mental level 
of the generation before them, to which they have been never- 
theless tied by the strongest fibres of their hearts. The suffer- 
ing, whether of martyr or victim, which belongs to every his- 
torical advance of mankind, is represented in this way in every 
town, and by hundreds of obscure hearths ; and we need not 
shrink from this comparison of small things with great ; for 
does not science tell us that its highest striving is after the 
ascertainment of a unity which shall bind the smallest things 
with the greatest ? In natural science, I have understood, 
there is nothing petty to the mind that has a large vision of 
relations, and to which every single object suggests a vast 
sum of conditions. It is surely the same with the observation 
of human life. 

Certainly the religious and moral ideas of the Dodsons and 
Tullivers were of too specific a kind to be arrived at deduct- 
ively from the statement that they were part of the Protestant 
population of Great Britain. Their theory of life had its core 
of soundness, as all theories must have on which decent and 
prosperous families have been reared and have flourished ; but 
it had the very slightest tincture of theology. If, in the maiden 
days of the Dodson sisters, their Bibles opened more easily at 
some parts than others, it was because of dried tulip-petals, 
which had been distributed quite impartially, without prefer- 
ence for the historical, devotional, or doctrinal." Their religion 
was of a simple, semi-pagan kind, but there was no heresy in 
it — ^if heresy properly means choice — ^for they didn't know there 
was any other religion, except that of chapel-goers, which ap- 
peared to run in families, like asthma. How should they know ? 
The vicar of their pleasant rural parish was not a controver- 
sialist, but a good hand at whist, and one who had a joke al- 
ways ready for a blooming female parishioner. The religion 
of the Dodsons consisted in revering whatever was customary 
and respectable : it was necessary to be baptized, else one could 
not be buried in the church-yard, and to take the sacrament 
before death as a security against more dimly understood 
perils ; but it was of equal necessity to have the proper pall- 
Dearers and well-cured hams at one's funeral, and to leave an 
unimpeachable will. A Dodson would not be taxed with the 
omission of any thing that was becoming, or that belonged to 
that eternal fitness of things which was ^ainly indicated in the 
practice of the most substantial parishioners and in the family 
traditions, such as obedience to parents, faithfulness to kindred, 
industry, rigid honesty, thrift, the thorough scouring of wooden 
and copper utensils, the hoarding of coins likely to disappear 
from tne currency, the production of first-rate conmiodities for 

L 



t42 THE mLL osr thk funm. 

the maiket, and the general preference for whatever was hmne- 
made. The Dodsons were a very prond race, and their pride 
lay in the utter finstration of all dedre to tax them with a 
breach of traditional duty or propriety. A wholesome pride 
in many respects, since it identified honor with perfect int^- 
rity, thoroughness of work, and faithfulness to admitted rules ; 
and society owes some worthy qualities in many of her mem- 
bers to mothers of the Dodson class, who made thdr buttor 
and their fromenty well, and would have fdt disgraced to make 
it otherwise. To be honest and poor was never a Dodscm 
motto, still less to seem rich though being poor ; rather, the 
family badge was to be honest and rich ; and not only rich, 
but richer than was supposed. To live respected, and have 
the proper bearers at your funeral, was an addevement of the 
ends of existence that would be entirely nullified i^ on the 
reading of your will, you sank in the opmion of your fellow- 
men either by turning out to be poorer than they expected, or 
by leaving your money in a capricious manner, without strict 
regard to degrees of kin. The right thing must always he 
done toward kindred. The right thing was to correct fii&oi 
severely if they were other than a credit of the family, b*t still 
not to alienate from them the smallest rightful share in the 
fiunily shoe-buckles and other property. A conspicuous qual- 
ity in the Dodson character was its genuineness : its vices and 
virtues alike were phases of a proud, honest egoism, which had 
a hearty dislike to whatever made against its own credit and 
interest, and would be frankly hard of speech to inconvenient 
"kin," but would never forsake or ignore them — ^would not let 
them want bread, but only require them to eat it with bitter 
herbs. 

The same sort of traditional belief ran in the Tulliver veins, 
but it was carried in richer blood, having elements of generous 
imprudence, warm affection, and hot-tempered rashness. Mr. 
Tulliver's grandfather had been heard to say that he was de- 
scended from one Ralph Tulliver, a wonderfiilly clever fellow, 
who had ruined himself. It is likely enough that the clever 
Ralph was a high liver, rode spirited horses, and was very de- 
cidedly of his own opinion. On the other hand, nobody had 
ever heard of a Dodson who had ruined himself: it was not the 
wav of that family. 

n such were the views of life on which the Dodsons and 
Tullivers had been reared in the praiseworthy past of Pitt and 
.high prices, you will infer from what you already know con- 
cerning the state of society in St. Ogg's, that there had been 
no highly modifying influence to act on them in their maturer 
^'^G, It was still possible, even in that later time of anti-Caliolic 



THE MILL ON THE FLOfiS. 243 

preaching, for people to bold many pagan ideas, and believe 
themselves good Church-people notwithstanding ; so we need 
hardly feel any surprise at the fact that Mr. Tulliver, though a 
regular church-goer, recorded his vindictiveness on the fly-leaf 
of his Bible. It was not that any hama could be said concern- 
ing the vicar of that charming rural parish to which Dorlcote 
Mill belonged : he was a man of excellent family, an irreproach- 
able bachelor, of elegant pursuits, had taken honors, and held a 
fellowship. Mr. Tulliver regai'ded him with dutiful respect, as 
he did every thing else belonging to the Church-service ; but 
he considered that Church was one thing and common sense 
another, and he wanted nobody to tell him wh&t common sense 
was. Certain seeds which are required to find a nidus for 
themselves under unfavorable circumstances have been sup- 
plied by nature with an apparatus of hooks, so that they will 
get hold of very imreceptive surfaces. The spiritual seed 
which had been scattered over Mr. Tulliver had apparently 
been destitute of any corresponding provision, and had slipped 
off to the winds again, from a total absence of hooks. 



CHAPTER n. 

THE TOEN NEST IS PIEECED BY THE THORNS. 

Thebe is something sustaining in the very agitation that 
accompanies the first shocks of trouble, just as an acute pain 
is often a stimulus, and produces an excitement which is tran- I 
sient strength. It is in the slow, changed life that follows — i 
in the time when sorrow has become stale, and has no longer \ 
an emotive intensity that counteracts its pain — in the time \ 
when day follows day in dull unexpectant sameness, and trial is ', 
a dreary routine — ^it is then that despair threatens ; it is then / 
that the peremptory hunger of the soul is felt, and eye and ear / 
are strained after some unlearned secret of our existence, which I 
shall give to endurance the nature of satisfaction. 

This time of utmost need was come to Maggie, with her 
short span of thirteen years. To the usual precocity of the 
girl she added that early experience of struggle, of conflict 
between the inward impulse and outward fact, which is the lot 
of every imaginative and passionate nature ; and the years since 
she hammered the nails into her wooden Fetish among the 
worm-eaten shelves of the attic had been filled with so eager a 
life in the triple world of Reality, Books, and Waking Dreams, 
that Maggie was strangely old for her years in every thing 
except in her entire want of that prudence and self-conunand 



N 



S 



244 THX MUX ON THE FLOSS. 

which were the qualities that made Tom manlj in the midst 
of his intellectual boyishness. And now her lot was beginning 
to have a still, sad monotony, which threw her more than ever 
on her inward self. Her father was able to attend to business 
again, his affairs were settled, and he was acting as Wakem's 
manager on the old spot. Tom went to and fro every morn- 
ing and evening, and became more and more silent in the short 
intervals at homfe : what was there to say ? One day was like 
another, and Tom's interest in life, driven back and crushed on 
every other side, was concentrating itself into the one channel 
of ambitious resistance to misfortune. The peculiarities of his 
father and mother were very irksome to him now they were 
laid bare of all the softening accompaniments of an easy, pros- 

Eerous home ; for Tom had very clear prosaic eyes, not apt to 
e dimmed by mists of feeling or imagination. Foor Mrs.Tul- 
liver, it seemed, would never recover her old self — ^her placid 
household activity : how could she? The objects among which 
her nund had moved complacently were all gone — all the little 
hopes, and schemes, and speculations, all the pleasant little cares 
about her treasures which had made this world quite compre- 
hensible to her for a quarter of a century, since she had made 
her first purchase of the sugar-tongs, had been suddenly snatch- 
ed away from her, and she remained bewildered in this empty 
life. Why that should have happened to her which had not 
happened to other women, remained an insoluble question by 
which she expressed her perpetual ruminating comparison of 
the past with the present. It was piteous to see the comely 
blonde stout woman getting thinner and more worn under a 
bodily as well as mental restlessness, which made her often 
wander about the empty house after her work was done, until 
Maggie, becoming alarmed about her, would seek her, and bring 
her down by telling her how it vexed Tom that she was injur- 
ing her health by never sitting down and resting herself, x et 
amid this helpless imbecility there was a touching trait of hum- 
ble, self-devoting maternity, which made Maggie feel tenderly 
toward her poor mother amid all the little wearing griefs 
caused by her mental feebleness. She would let Maggie do 
none of the work that was heaviest and most soiling to the 
hands, and was quite peevish when Maggie attempted to re- 
lieve her from her grate-brushing and scouring : " Let it alone, 
my dear ; your hands 'ull get as hard as hard," she would say : 
" it's your mother's place to do that. I can't do the sewing — 
my eyes fail me." And she would still brush and carefully 
tend Maggie's hair, which she had become reconciled to, in 
spite of its refusal to curl, now it was so long and massy. Mag- 
gie was not her pet child, and, in general, would have been 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSsV 

much better if she had been quite different; yet\ ° 

heart, so bruised in its small personal desires, ^^^^^^^xsentration 
to rest on in the life of this young thing, and the mothei-^ « little 
herself with wearing out her own hands to save the hana^^i^ u 
had so much more life in them. hia 

But the constant presence of her mother's regretful bewffS 
derment was less painful to Maggie than that of her father's 
sullen incommunicative depression. As long as the paralysis 
was upon him, and it seemed as if he might always be in a 
childlike condition of dependence — as long as he was still 
only half awakened to his trouble, Maggie had felt the strong 
tide of pitying love almost as an inspiration, a new power, that 
would make the most difficult life easy for his sake ; but now, 
instead of childUke dependence, there had come a taciturn, 
hard concentration of purpose, in strange contrast with his eld 
vehement communicativeness and high spirit ; and this lasted 
from day to day, and from week to week, the duU eye never 
brightening with any eagerness or any joy. It is something 
cruelly incomprehensible to youthful natures, this sombre same- 
ness in middle-aged and elderly people, whose life has resulted 
in disappomtment and discontent, to whose faces a smile be- 
comes so strange that the sad lines all about the hps and brow 
seem to take no notice of it, and it hurries away again for want 
of a welcome. " Why will they not kindle up and be glad 
sometimes ?" tlunks young elasticity. " It would be so easy, 
if ^ they only liked to do it." And these leaden clouds that 
never part are apt to create impatience even in the filial affec- 
tion that streams forth in nothmg but tenderness and pity in 
the time of more obvious affliction. 

Mr. TuUiver lingered nowhere away from home : he hurried 
away from market, he reftised all invitations to stay and chat, 
as in old times, in thp houses where he called on business. 
He could not be reconciled with his lot : there was no attitude 
in which his pride did not feel its bruises ; and in all behavior 
toward him, whether kind or cold, he detected an allusion to 
the change in his circumstances. . Even the days in which 
Wakem came to ride round the land and inquire into the 
business were not so black to him as those market-days on 
which he had met several creditors who had accepted a com- 
position from him. To save something toward the repayment 
of those creditors was the object toward which he was now 
bending all his thoughts and efforts ; and under the influefi^e 
of this all-compelling demand of his nature, the somewhat pro- 
fuse man, who hated to be stinted or to stint any one else in 
his own house, was gradually metamorphosed into the keen- 
ejed grudger of morsels. Mrs. Tulliver could not economize 



^^'^ ^""tHE mill on THB FL068. 

which ^ere^[j^ y^^ ^ ^^^^ g^ 3^^^ g^j^g^ 3^^^ j^^ ^^^^ 

"I* *^^!ghimself but what was of the coarsest quality. Tom, 
^^ Y^^^>wpressed and strongly repelled by his father's sollen- 
^JJJJ^Snd the dreariness of home, entered thoroughly into Mb 
ler's feelings about paying the creditors ; and the poor lad 
brought his first quarter's money, with a delicious sense of 
fl^evement, and gave it to his father to put into the tin box 
which held the savings. The little store of sovereigns in the 
tin box seemed to be the only sight that brought a faint beam 
of pleasure into the miller's eyes — ^fiunt and transient, for it 
was soon dispelled by the thought that the time would be 
long — ^perhaps longer than life — ^before the narrow savings 
could remove the hateful incubus of debt. A deficit of more 
than five hundred pounds, with the accumulating interest, 
seemed a deep pit to fill with the saving firom thirty shillings 
a week, even when Tom's probable savmgs were to be add^ 
On this point there was entire community of feeling in the four 
widely difiering beings who sat round the dying fire of sticks, 
which made a cheap warmth for them on the verge of bed- 
time. Mrs. Tulliver carried the proud integrity of the Dod- 
sons in her blood, and had been brought up to think that to 
wrong people of their money, which was another phrase for 
debt, was a sort of moral pillory : it would have been wicked- 
ness, to her mind, to have run counter to her husband's desire 
to " do the right thing," and retrieve his name. She had a 
confused dreamy notion that, if the creditors were all paid, 
her plate and linen ought to come back to her ; but she had 
an inbred perception that while people owed money they were 
unable to pay, they couldn't rightly call any thing their own. 
She murmured a little that Mr. Tulliver so peremptorily re- 
fused to receive any thing in repayment from Mr. and Mrs. 
Moss ; but to all his requirements of household economy she 
was submissive to the point of denying herself the cheapest 
indulgences of mere flavor : her only rebellion was to smuggle 
into the kitchen something that would make rather a better 
supper than usual for Tom. 

These narrow notions about debt, held by the old-fashioned 
Tullivers, may perhaps excite a snule on the faces of many 
readers in these days of wide commercial views and wide 
philosophy, according to which every thing rights itself with- 
out any trouble of ours : the fact that my tradesman is out of 
pocket by me is to be looked at through the serene certjdnty 
that somebody else's tradesman is in pocket by somebody else; 
and since there must be bad debts in the world, why, it is 
mere egoism not to like that we in particulai" should make 
them instead of our fellow-citizens. I am telling the history 



THB MILL ON THS FL088. 247 

of very simple people, who had never had aiiy illtiminating 
doubts as to personal uitegrity and honor. 

Under all this grim melancholy and narrowing concentration 
of desire, Mr. Tulliver retained the feeling toward his " little 
wench" which made her presence a need to him, though it 
would not suffice to cheer mm.. She was still the desire of his 
eyes ; but the sweet spring of fatherly love was now mingled 
with bitterness, like every thing else. When Mag^e laid 
down her work at night, it was her habit to get a low stool 
and sit by her father's knee, leaning her cheek against it. 
How she wished he would stroke her head, or give some sign 
that he was soothed by the sense that he had a daughter who 
loved him ! But now she got no answer to her little caresses 
either from her father or from Tom — ^the two idols of her life. 
Tom was weary and abstracted in the short intervals when he 
was at home, and her father was bitterly preoccupied with the 
thought that the girl was growing up — was shooting up into 
a woman ; and hoV was she to do well in life ? She had a 
poor chance for marrying, down in the world as they were. 
And he hated the thought of her marrying poorly, as her aunt 
Gritty had done : that would be a thing to make him turn in 
Ms grave — ^the little wench so pulled down by children and 
toil as her aunt Moss was. When uncultured minds, confined 
to a narrow range of personal experience, are under the press- 
ure of continued misfortune, their inward life is apt to become 
a perpetually repeated round of sad and bitter thoughts ; the 
same words, the same scenes are revolved over and over again, 
the same mood accompanies them — ^the end of the year finds 
them as much what they were at the beginning as if they 
were machmes set to a recurrent series of movements. 

The sameness of the days was broken by few visitors. ITn- 
cles and aunts paid only short visits now ; of course, they 
could not stay to meals, and the constraint caused by Mr. Tul- 
liver's savage silence, which seemed to add to the hollow res- 
onance of the bare uncarpeted room when the aunts were 
talking, heightened the unpleasantness of these family visits on 
all sides, and tended to make them rare. As for other ac- 
quaintances — ^there is a chill air surrounding those who are 
down in the world, and people are glad to get away from 
them, as from a cold room: human beings, mere men and 
women, without ftimiture, without any thing to offer you, who 
have ceased to count as any body, present an embarrassing ne- 
gation of reasons for wislung to see them, or of subjects on 
which to converse with them. At that distant day there was 
a dreary isolation in the civilized Christian society of these 
realms for families that had dropped below their original level. 



848 THX HILL ON THB FLOSS. 

unless they belonged to a sectarian Chnrch, which gets some 
wannth of brotherhood by walling in the sacred fire. 



CHAPTER m. 

A YOICB FBOK THE PAST. 



Onb afternoon, when the chestnuts were coming into flower, 
Maggie had brought her chair outside the front door, and was 
seated there with a book on her knees. Her dark eyes had 
wandered from the book, but they did not seem to be enjoying 
the sunshine which pierced the screen of jasmine on the pro- 
jecting porch at her right, and threw leafy shadows on her 
pale round cheek ; they seemed rather to be searching for some- 
thing that was not disclosed by the sunshine. It had^been a 
more miserable day than usual : her father, after a visit of 
Wakem's, had had a paroxysm of rage, in which for some tri- 
fling fault he had beaten the boy who served in the mill. Once 
before, since his illness, he had had a similar paroxysm, in 
which he had beaten his horse, and the scene had left a last- 
ing terror in Maggie's mind. The thought had risen that some 
time or other he might beat her mother if she happened to 
speak in her feeble way at the wrong moment. The keenest 
of all dread with her was lest her father should add to his pres- 
ent misfortune the wretchedness of doing something irretriev- 
ably disgraceful. The battered school-book of Tom's whidi 
she held on her knees could give her no fortitude under the 
pressure of that dread, and again and again her eyes had filled 
with tears as they wandered vaguely, seeing neither the chest- 
nut trees nor the distant horizon, but only future scenes of 
home-sorrow. 

Suddenly she was roused by the sound of the opening gate 
and of footsteps on the gravel. It was not Tom who was en- 
tering, but a man in a seal-skin cap and a blue plush waistcoat, 
carrying a pack on his back, and followed closely by a buU-ter- 
rier of brindled coat and defiant aspect. 

" Oh, Bob, it's you I" said Maggie, starting up with a smile 
of pleased recognition, for there had been no abundance of 
kind acts to efiace the recollection of Bob's generosity; "Pm 
so glad to see you." 

'I Thank you, miss," said Bob, lifting his cap and showing a 
delighted face, but inunediately relievmg himself of some ac- 
companying embarrassment by looking down at his dog, and 
saying in a tone of disgust, " Get out wi' you, you thunderin' 
sawney I" 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 249 

" My brother is not at home yet, Bob," said Maggie ; " he is 
always at St. Ogg's in the daytime." 

" Well, miss," said Bob, " I should be glad to see Mr. Tom ; 
but that isn't just what I'm come for — ^look here !" 

Bob was in the act of depositing his pack on the door-step, 
and with it a row of small books festened together with string. 
Apparently, however, they were not the object to which he 
wished to call Maggie's attention, but rather something which 
he had carried under his arm, wrapped in a red handkerchief. 

" See here !" he said again, laying the red parcel on the oth- 
ers and unfolding it ; " you won't think I'm a-making too free, 
miss, I hope, but I Hghted on these books, and I thought they 
might make up to you a bit for them as you've lost ; for I 
beared you speak o' picturs — an' as for ^icturs, look here !" 

The opening of the red handkerchief had disclosed a super- 
annuated " Keepsake" and six or seven numbers of a " Portrait 
Gallery," in royal octavo ; and the emphatic request to look re- 
ferred to a portrait of George the Fourth in all the majesty of 
his depressed cranium and voluminous neckcloth. 

" There's all sorts o' genelmen here," Bob went on, turning 
over the leaves with some excitement, " wi' all sorts o' noses 
— an' some bald an' some wi' wigs — ^Parlament genelmen, I 
reckon. An' here," he added, opening the " Keepsake," "A€re'« 
ladies for you, some wi' curly liMir and some wi' smooth, an' 
some a-smiling wi' their heads o' one side, an' some as if they 
was goin' to cry — ^look here — a-sitting on the ground out o' 
door, dressed like the ladies I'n seen get out o' the carriages 
at the balls in th' Old Hall there. My eyes, I wonder what 
the chaps wear as go a-courtin' 'em I I sot up till the clock 
was gone twelve last night arlookin' at 'em — ^1 did — till they 
stared at me out o' the picturs as if they'd know when I spoke 
to 'em. They'll be more fittin' company for you, miss ; and the 
man at the book-stall, he said they banged ivery thing for pic- 
turs — ^he said they was a fust-rate article." 

" And you've bought them for me. Bob ?" said Maggie, deep- 
ly touched by this simple kindness. " How very, very good of 
you ! But I'm afraid you gave a great deal of money for 
them." 

" Not me !" said Bob. " I'd ha' gev three times the money, 
if they'll make up to you a bit for them as was sold away from 
you, miss. For I'n niver forgot how you looked when you 
fretted about the books bein' gone ; it's stuck by me its if it 




your'n wnen you was irettm' — ^you' 

liberty, miss— I thought I'd make free to buy it for you, an' 

L2 



250 THB MILL OK THB FMMS. 

then I bought the books fhll o' genelmen to match — an' then'' 
— here Bob took up the small stringed packet of book*— " I 
thought you might like a bit more print as well as the picturs, 
an' I got these for a say-so — ^they're cram-full o' print, an' I 
thought they'd do no harm comin' along wi' these Dettermost 
books. An' I hope you won't say me nay, an' tell me as yon 
won't have 'em, like Mr. Tom did wi' the suvreigns." 

" No, indeed, Bob," said Maggie, " I'm very thankful to you 
for thinking of me, and being so good to me and Tom. I don't 
think any one ever did such a kind thing for me before. I 
haven't many friends who care for me." 

" Hev a dog, miss — ^they're better firiends nor any Christian," 
said Bob, laying down his pack again, which he had taken up 
with the intention of hurrying awajr ; for he felt considerable 
shyness in talking to a young lass like Mag^e, though, as he 
usually said of himself, " his tongue overrun him" when he be* 
can to speak. " I can't give you Mumps, 'cause he'd brei^ 
his heart to go away from me— eh. Mumps, what do you say, 
you riff-rafT?" (Mumps declined to express himself more dif- 
fusely than by a single affirmative movement of his taiL) ^' Bat 
I'd get you a pup, miss, an' welcome." 

" J^o, thank you, Bob. We have a yard-dog, and I mayn't 
keep a dog of my own." 

" Eh, that's a pity ; else there's a pup — ^if you didn't mind 
about it not bein' thoroughbred : it's mother acts in the Punch 
show — ^an uncommon sensable bitch — she means more sense 
wi' her bark nor half the chaps can put into their taJk from 
breakfast to sundown. There's one chap carries pots — a poor 
low trade as any on the road — ^he says, ' Why, Toby's naught 
but a mongrel — there's naught to look at in her.' But I says 
to him, ' Why, what are you yoursen but a mongrel ? There 
wasn't much pickin' o' y(mr feyther an' mother, to look at you.' 
Not but what I like a bit o' breed myself, but I can't abide to 
see one cur grinnin' at another. I wish you good evenin', 
miss," added Bob, abruptly taking up his pack again, under 
the consciousness that his tongue was acting m an undisciplined 
manner. 

" Won't you come in the evening some time, and see my 
brother, Bob ?" said Maggie. 

" Yes, miss, thank you — another time. You'll give my duty 
to him, if you please. Eh, he's a fine-growed chap, Mr. Tom 
is ; he took to growin' i' the legs, an' Z didn't." 

The pack was down again now, the hook of the stick having 
somehow gone wrong. 

^ 'I You don't call Mumps a cur, I suppose ?" said Maggie, di- 
vining that any interest she showed in Mumps would be grati- 
fying to his master. 



THS MILL ON THB FLOSS. 251 



"No, miss, a fine way off that," said Bob, with a pitying 
die ; ."Mumps is as fine a cross as you'll see any where along 



smile ;.."iuumps i» as ime a uross as you u see any wnere along 
the Floss, an' I'n been up it wi' the barge times enoo. Why, 
the gentry stops to look at him ; but you won't catch Mumps 
a-looMng at the gentry much : he minds his own business, he 
does." 

The expression of Mumps's fisuse, which seemed to be toler- 
ating the superfluous existence of objects in general, was 
strongly confirmatory of this high praise. 

"He looks dreadfully surly," said Maggie. " Would he let 
me pat him ?" 

"Ay, that would he, and thank you. He knows his com- 
pany. Mumps does. He isn't a dog as 'ull be caught wi' gin- 
ger oread ; he'd smell a thief a good deal stronger nor the gin- 
gerbread — ^he would. Lors, I talk to him by t^ hour together 
when I'm walking i' lone places, and if I'n done a bit o' mis- 
chief I allays tell him. rn got no secrets but what Mumps 
knows 'em. He knows about my big thumb, he does." 

" Your big thumb— what's that, Bob ?" said Maggie. 

"That's what it is, miss," said Bob, quickly, exhibiting a 
singularly broad specimen of that difference between the man 
and the monkey. " It tells i' measuring out the flannel, you 
see. I carry flannel, 'cause it's light for my pack, an' it's dear 
Btuf^ you see, so a big thumb tells. I clap my thumb at the 
end o' the yard and cut o' the hither side of it, and the old 
women aren't up to't." 

" But, Bob," said Maggie, looking serious, " that's cheating : 
I don't like to hear you say that." 

" Don't you, miss ?" said Bob, regretfully. " Then I'm sorry 
I said it. But I'm so used to talking to Mumps, an' he doesn't 
mind a bit o' cheating when it's them skinflint women as hag- 
gle an haggle, an' 'ud like to get their flannel for nothing, an' 
*ud niver ask theirselves how I got my dinner out on't. I 
niver cheat any body as doesn't want to cheat me, miss — ^lors, 
I'm a honest chap, I am; only I must hev a bit o' sport, an' 
now I don't go wi' the ferrets, I'n got no varmint to come over 
but them hag^ing women. I wish you good-evening, miss." 

" Good-by, iBob. Thank you very much for bringing me 
the books. And come agsdn to see Tom." 

" Yes, miss," said Bob, moving on a few steps ; then turning 
half round, he said, "I'll leave off that trick wi' my big thumb 
if you don't think well on me for it, miss — ^but it 'ud be a pity, 
it would. I couldn't find another trick so good — ^an' what'ud 
be the use o' havin' a big thumb ? It might as well ha' been 



narrer.'* 



MaggiOi thus exalted into Bob's directing Madonna, laughed 



S59 THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 

in spite of herself ; at which her worshiper's blue eyes twinkled 
too, and under these favoring auspices he touched his cap and 
walked awaj. 

Hie days of chivalry are not gone, notwithstanding Burke^s 
grand dirge over them : they live still in that fiur-off worship 
paid by many a youth and man to the woman of whom he 
never dreams that be shall touch so much as her little finger 
or the hem of her robe. Bob, with the pack on his back, had 
OS respectful an adoration for this dark-eyed maiden as if he 
had been a knight in armor calling aloud on her name as he 
pricked on to the fight. 

That gleam of merriment soon died away from Maggie's 
face, and perhaps only made the returning gloom deeper hy 
contrast. She was too dispirited even to like answering ques- 
tions about Bob's present of books, and she carried them away 
to her bedroom, laying them down there and seating herself 
on her one stool, without caring to look at them just yet. She 
leaned her cheek against the window-firame, and thought that 
the light-hearted Bob had a lot much happier than hers. 

Maggie's sense of loneliness and utter privation of joy had 
deepened with the brightness of advancing spring. All the 
favorite outdoor nooks about home, which seemed to have 
done their part with her parents in nurturing and cherishing 
her, were now mixed up with the home-sadness, and gathered 
no smile from the sunshine. Every affection, every deught the 
poor child had had, was like an aching nerve to her. TTiere 
was no music for her any more — ^no piano, no harmonized 
voices, no delicious stringed instruments, with their passionate 
cries of imprisoned spirits sending a strange vibration through 
her frame. And of all her school-life there was nothing left 
her now but her little collection of school-books, which she 
turned over with a sickening sense that she knew them all, 
and they were all barren of comfort. Even at school she had 
often wished for books with more in them : every thing she 
learned there seemed like the ends of long threads that snapped 
immediately. And now, without the indirect charm of school- 
emulation, T^^maque was mere bran ; so were the hard, dry 
questions on Christian doctrine : there was no flavor in them 
— ^no strength. Sometimes Maffgie thought she could have 
been contented with absorbing fancies : if she could have had 
all Scott's novels and all Byron's poems, then, perhaps, she 
might have found happiness enough to dull her sensibility to 
her actual daily life. And yet .... they were hardly what 
she wanted. She could make dream-worlds of her own ; but 
no dream-world would satisfy her now. She wanted some ex- 
planation of this hard, real life : the unhappy-lookmg father, 



THE MILL OK THE FLOSS. 253 

seated at the dull breaki&st-table ; the childish, bewildered 
mother; the little sordid tasks that filled the hours, or the 
more oppressive emptiness of weary joyless leisure ; the need 
of some tender, demonstrative love ; the cruel sense that Tom 
didn't mind what she thought or felt, and that they were no 
longer playfellows together ; the privation of all pleasant things 
that had come to her more than to others — she wanted some 
key that would enable her to understand, and, in understand- 
ing, endure, the heavy weight that had fallen on her young 
heart. If she had been taught " real learning and wisdom, 
such as great men knew," she thought she should have held 
the secrets of life ; if she had only books, that she might learn 
for herself what wise men knew ! Saints and martyrs had 
never interested Maggie so much as sages and poets. She 
knew little of saints and martyrs, and had gathered, as a gen- 
eral result of her teaching, that they were a temporary provi^ 
sion against the spread of Catholicism, and had all died at Smith- 
field. 

In one of these meditations, it occurred to her that she had 
forgotten Tom's school-books, which had been sent home in 
his trunk. But she found the stock unaccountably shrunk 
down to the few old ones which had been well thumbed — ^the 
Latin Dictionary and Grammar, a Delectus, a torn Eutropius, 
the well-worn Virgil, Aldrich's Logic, and the exasperating 
Euclid. Still, Latin, Euclid, and Logic would surely be a con- 
siderable step in masculine wisdom — in that knowledge which 
made men cont^ptejj^and even glad to live. Not that the 
yearning for effd^uad vtdsdom was quite unmixed: a certain • 
mirage would now and then rise on the desert of the future, ^f^ 
in which she seemed to see herself honored for her sui-prising 
attainments. And so the poor child, with her soul's hunger 
and her illusions of self-flattery, began to nibble at this thick- 
rinded fruit of the tree of knowledge, filling her vacant hours 
with Latin, geometry, and the forms of the syllogism, and feel- 
ing a gleam of triumph now and then that her understanding 
was quite equal to these peculiarly masculine studies. For a 
week or two she went on resolutely enough, though with an 
occasional sinking of heart, as if she had set out toward the 
Promised Land done, and found it a thirsty, trackless, uncer- 
tain journey. In the severity of her early resolution, she would 
take Aldrich out into the fields, and tnen look off her book 
toward the sky, where the lark was twinkling, or to the reeds 
and bushes by the river, fi*om which the water-fowl rustled 
forth on its anxious, awkward flight, with a startled sense that 
the relation between Aldrich and this living world was ex- 
tremdy remote for her. The discouragement deepened as the 



264 THX lOLL ON THE IJJOBB. 

days went on, and the eager heart gained ftster and faster on 
the patient mind. Somehow, when she sat at the window with 
her book, her eyes would fix themselves blankly on the out- 
door sunshine : then they would fill with tears, and sometimes, 
if her mother was not in the room, the studies would all end 
in sobbing. She rebelled against her lot, she fiEdnted under 
its loneliness, and fits even of anger and hatred toward her &- 
ther and mother, who were so unlike what she would have 
them to be — ^toward Tom, who checked her, and met her 
thought or feeling always by some thwarting difibrence — 
would flow out over affections and conscience like a lava- 
stream, and frighten her with the sense that it was not diffi- 
cult for her to become a demon. Then her brain would he 
busy with wild romances of flight from home in search of 
something less sordid and dreary: she would go to some great 
man — ^Walter Scott, perhaps — and tell him how wretched and 
how clever she was, and he would surely do something for her. 
But, in the middle of her vision, her fiither would perhaps enter 
the room for the evening, and, surprised that she still sat with- 
out noticing him, would say, complainin^ly, " Come, am I to 
fetch my slippers myself?" The voice pierced through Mag- 
gie like a sword : there was another sadness besides her own, 
and she had been thinking of turning her back on it and for- 
saking it. 

Th^ afternoon, the sight of Bob's cheerful fi:eckled face had 
given her discontent a new direction. She thought it was 
part of the hardship of her life that there was laid upon her 
the burden of larger wants than others seemed to feel — that 
she had to endure this wide, hopeless yearning for that some- 
thing, whatever it was, that was greatest and best on this 
earth. She wished she could have been like Bob, with his 
easily satisfied ignorance, or like Tom, who had something to 
do on which he could fix his mind with a steady purpose, and 
disregard every thing else. Poor child! as she leaned her 
head against the window-frame, with her hands clasped tighter 
and tighter, and her foot beating the ground, she was as lone- 
ly in her trouble as if she had been the only girl in the civilized 
world of that day who had come out of her school-life with a 
soul untrained for inevitable struggles — ^with no other part of 
her inherited share in the hard-won treasures of thought, which 
generations of painful toil have laid up for the race of men, 
than shreds and patches of feeble literature and false history — 
with much futile information about Saxon and other kings of 
doubtful example, but unhappily quite without that knowledge 
of the irreversible laws within and without her, which, gov- 
ermng the habits, becomes morality, and, developing tiie fisel- 



THB MILL ON THX FLOSS. 255 

iiigs of submission and dependence, becomes religion — as lone- 
ly in her trouble as if every other girl besides herself had been 
cherished and watched over by elder minds, not forgetful of 
their own early time, when need was keen and impulse strong. 
At last Maggie's eyes glanced down on the books that lay 
on the window-shelf, and she half forsook her reverie to turn 
over listlessly the leaves of the " Portrait Gallery ;" but she 
soon pushed this aside to examine the little row of books tied 
together with string. " Beauties of the Spectator," " Rasse- 
las," "Economy of Human Life," "Gregory's Letters" — she 
knew the sort of matter that was inside all these : the " Chris- 
tian Year" — ^that seemed to be a hymn-book, and she laid it 
down again; but Thomas a JKismpis ? — the name had come 
across her in her reading, and she felt the satisfaction, which 
every one knows, of getting some ideas to attach to a name 
that strays solitary in the memory. She took up the little, 
old, clumsy book with some curiosity: it had the comers 
turned down in many places, and some hand, now forever 
quiet, had made at certain passages strong pen and ink marks,^ 
long since browned by time. Maggie turned from leaf to lea^ 
and read where the quiet hand pomted. ..." Know that the 
love of thyself doth hurt thee more than any thing in the 

world If thou seekest this or that, and wouldst be here 

or there to enjoy thy own will and pleasure, thou shalt never 
be quiet nor free from care ; for in every thing somewhat will 
be wanting, and in every place there will be some that will 

cross thee Both above and below, which way soever thou 

dost turn thee, every where thou shalt find the Cross; and 
every where of necessity thou must have patience, if thou wilt 

have inward peace, and enjoy an everlasting crown K 

thou desire to mount unto this height, thou must set out cour- 
ageously, and lay the axe to the root, that thou mayst pluck 
up and destroy that hidden inordinate inclination to thyself, 
and unto all private and earthly good. On this sin, that a' 
man inordinately loveth himself, almost all dependeth, whatso- 
ever is thoroughly to be overcome; which evil being once 
overcome and subdued, there wiU presently ensue great peace 
and tranquillity It is but little thou sufierest in compari- 
son of them that have suffered so much, were so strongly 
tempted, so grievously afflicted, so many ways tried and ex- 
ercised. Thou oughtest therefore to call to mind the more 
heavy sufferings of others, that thou mayst the easier bear thy 
little adversities. And if they seem not little unto thee, be- 
ware lest thy impatience be the cause thereoT. .... Blessed 
are those ears thiEtt receive the whispers of the divine voice, 
and listen not to the whisperings of the world. Blessed are 



250 THB MILL OH THB FL068. 

those ears which hearken not unto the voice which sonndeih 
outwardly, but unto the Truth which teacheth inwardly . . . ." 

A strange thrill of awe passed through Maggie while she 
read, as if she had been wakened in the night by a strain of 
solemn music, telling of beings whose soms had been astir 
while hers was in stupor. She went on from one brown mark 
to another, where the quiet hand seemed to point, hardly con- 
scious that she was reading — seeming rather to listen while a 
low voice said, 

''Why dost thou here gaze about, since this is not the place 
of thy rest ? In heaven ought to be thy dwelling, and all 
earthly things are to be looked on as they forward thy jour- 
ney thither. All things pass away, and thou together with 
them. Beware thou cleave not unto them, lest thou be en- 
tangled and perish If a man should give ail his sub- 
stance, yet it is as nothing. And if he should do great pen- 
ances, yet are they but little. And if he should attain to all 
knowledge, he is yet far offl And if he should be of great 
virtue, and very fervent devotion, yet is there much wanting;; 
to wit, one thing, which is most necessary for him. What is 
that ? That having left all, he leave himself, and go wholly 

out of himself, and retain nothing of self-love I have 

often said unto thee, and now again I say the same, Forsake 
thyself, resign thyself, and thou shalt enjoy much inward 
peace Then shall all vain imaginations, evil perturba- 
tions, and superfluous cares fly away; then shall immoderate 
fear leave thee, and inordinate love shall die." 

Maggie drew a long breath and pushed her heavy hair back, 
as if to see a sudden vision more clearly. Here, then, was a 
secret of life that would enable her to renounce all other se- 
crets — ^here was a sublime height to be reached without tiie 
help of outward things — here was insight, and strength, and 
conquest to be won by means entirely within her own soul, 
where a supreme Teacher was waiting to be heard. It flashed 
through her like the suddenly apprehended solution of a prob- 
lem, that all the miseries of her young life had come from fix- 
ing her heart on her own pleasure, as if that were the central 
necessity of the universe ; and for the first time she saw the 
possibility of shifting the position from which she looked at 
the gratification of her own desires, of taking her stand out of 
herself, and looking at her own life as an insignificant part of 
a divinely-guided whole. She read on and on in the old book, 
devouring eagerly the dialogues with the invisible Teacher, 
the pattern of sorrow, the source of all strength ; returning to 
it after she had been called away, and reading till the sun went 
down behind the willows. With all the hurry of an imagina- 



THS MILL ON THE FLOSS. 257 

tion that could never rest in the present, she sat in the deep- 
ening twilight forming plans of self-humiliation and entire de- 
Yotedness, and, in the ardor of first discovery, renunciation 
seemed to her the entrance into that satisfaction which she 
had so long been craving in vain. She had' not perceived — 
how could she until she had lived longer ? — the inmost truth 
of the old monk's outpourings, that renunciation remains sor- 
row, though a sorrow borne willingly. Maggie was still pant- 
ing for happiness, and was in ecstasy because she had found 
the key to it. She knew nothing of doctrines and systems — 
of mysticism or quietism ; but this voice out of the far-off Mid- 
dle Ages was the direct communication of a human soul's be- 
lief and experience, and came to Maggie as an unquestioned 
message. 

I suppose that is the reason why the small old-fashioned 
book, for which you need only pay sixpence at a book-stall, \y^ 
works miracles to this day, turning bitter waters into sweet- d 
ness, while expensive sermons and treatises, newly issued, ^ 
leave all things as they were before. It was written down by ^r' 
a hand that waited for the heart's prompting ; it is the chron- ^ 
icle of a solitary hidden anguish, struggle, trust, and triumph, '^^ 
not writt on on velvet cushions to teach endurance to those who ^ 
are treading with bleeding feet on the stones. And so it re- ^ 
mains to all time a lasting record of human needs and human ^^ 
consolations ; the voice of a brother who, ages ago, felt, and ^ 
suffered, and renounced, in the cloister, perhaps, with serge 
gown and tonsured head, with much chanting and long fasts, 
and with a fashion of speech different from ours, but under the 
same silent far-off heavens, and with the same passionate de- f 
sires, the same strivings, the same failures, the same weari- 
ness. 

In writing the history of unfashionable families, one is apt 
to fall into a tone of emphasis which is very far from being the 
tone of good society, where principles and beliefs are not only 
of an extremely moderate kind, but are always presupposed, 
no subjects being eligible but such as can be touched with a 
light and graceful irony. But then, good society has its clar- 
et and its velvet carpets, its dinner-engagements six weeks 
deep,* its opera and its faery ball-rooms ; rides off its ennui on 
thorough-bred horses, lounges at the club, has to keep clear of 
crinoline vortices, gets its science done by Faraday, and its re* 
ligion by the superior clergy, who are to be met in the best 
houses ; how should it have time or need for belief and empha- 
sis ? But good society, floated on gossamer wings of hght 
irony, is of very expensive production, requiring nothing less 
than a wide ana arduous national life condensed in unfragrant 



^ 



THE MILL ON THB FLOflS. 



deafening factories, cramping itself in nunes, sweating at fin- 
naces, gnnding, hammering, weaving under more or less op- 
pression of carbonic acid, or else spread oyer sheep-walks, and 
scattered in lonely houses and huts on the clayey or chalky 
corn-lands, where the rainy days look dreary. This wide na- 
tional life is based entirely on emphasis — ^the emphasis of want, 
which urges it into all the activities necessary tor the mainte- 
nance of good society and light irony ; it spends its heavy years 
often in a chill, uncarpeted fashion, amid &mily discord un- 
softened by long corridors. Under such circumstances, there 
are many among its myriads of souls who have absolutely 
needed an emphatic belief; life in this unpleasurable shape de- 
manding some solution even to unspeculative minds, just as yoa 
inquire into the stuffing of your couch when any thing gBlk 
you there, whereas eider-down and perfect French springs ex- 
cite no question. Some have an emphatic belief in alcohol, 
and seek their ekstasis or outside standing-ground in gin; but 
the rest require something that good society calls ^^ enthusi- 
asm," something that will present motives in an entire absence 
of high prizes, something that will give patience and feed hu- 
man love when the limbs ache with weariness, and human 
looks are hard upon us — something, clearly, that lies outside 
personal desires, that includes resignation for ourselves and 
active love for what is not ourselves. Now and then, that 
sort of enthusiasm finds a far-echoing voice that comes from 
an experience springing out of the deepest need. And it was 
by being brought withm the long lingering vibrations of snch 
a voice that Maggie, with her girl's face and unnoted sorrows, 
found an effort and a hope that helped her through years of 
loneliness, making out a faith for herself without the aid of 
established authorities and appointed guides ; for they were 
not at hand, and her need was pressing. From what you 
know of her, you will not be surprised that she threw some 
exaggeration and willfulness, some pride and impetuosity even 
into her self-renunciation : her own life was still a drama for 
her, in which she demanded of herself that her part should be 
played with intensity. And so it came to pass that she often 
lost the spirit of humility by being excessive in lie outward 
act ; she often strove after too high a flight, and came down 
with her poor little half-fledged wings ^bbled in the mud. 
For example, she not only determined to work at plain sew- 
ing, that she might contribute sometliing toward the fund in 
the tin box, but she went, in the first instance, in her zeal of 
self-mortification, to ask for it at a linen-shop in St. Ogg^s, in- 
stead of getting it in a more quiet and indirect way, and could 
see nothjng but what was entirely wrong and unkind, nay, 



THB mix ON THB FLOSS. 269 

persecQtin^y in Tom's reproof of her for this tmnecessary act. 
" I don't hke my sister to do such things," said Tom ; ^^FU 
take care that the debts are paid, without your lowering your- 
self in that way." Surely there was some tenderness and 
bravery mingled with the worldliness and self-assertion of that 
little speech ; but Maggie held it as dross, overlooking the 
grains of gold, and took Tom's rebuke as one of her outward 
crosses. Tom was very hard to her, she used to think, in her 
long night-watchings — ^to her who had always loved him so ; 
and then she strove to be contented with that hardness, and 
to require nothing. That is the path we i^ like when we set 
out r mrmr i^ h n nfJo nmn i t i n f rfi n i n m th n ] nth o f i ii nii ii y ii l rfiT r - ^^ 

Stee p highway of tolerance, jus t all owanc.e»..a n<^ fl p] | ^1aTne^ 
whare tfferejreynj^ Ifig^ ^^ '^^^''^ihpTfid and Wipm. 

The dIdTioots, Virgil, Euclid, and Aldrich — ^that wrinkled 
firuit of the tree of knowledge — ^had been all laid by, for Mag- 
gie had turned her back on the vain ambition to share the 
thoughts of the wise. In her first ardor she flung away the 
books vtdth a sort of triumph that she had risen above the 
need of them ; and if they had been her own, she would have 
burned them, believing that she would never repent. She 
read so eagerly and constantly in her three books, the Bible, 
Thomas k Kempis, and the " Christian Year" (no longer reject- 
ed as a "hymn-book"), that they filled her mind with a con- 
tinual stream of rhythmic memories ; and she was too ardent- 
\j learning to see all nature and life in the light of her new 
mth to need any other material for her mind to work on, as 
she sat with her well-plied needle, making shirts and other 
complicated stitchings falsely called "plain" — ^by no means 
plain to Maggie, since wristband, and sleeve, and the like had 
a capability of being sewed in wrong side outward in moments 
of mental wandering. 

Hanging diligently over her sewing, Maggie was a sight 
any one might have been pleased to look at. That new inward 
life of hers, notwithstanding some volcanic upheavings of im- 
prisoned passions, ^et shone out in her face with a tender soft 
tight that mingled itself as added loveliness with the gradual- 
ly enriched color and outline of her blossoming youth. Her 
mother felt the change in her with a sort of puzzled wonder 
that Maggie should be " growing up so good ;" it was amaz- 
ing that this once "contrairy" child was become so submis- 
sive, so backward to assert her own will. Maggie used to 
look up from her work and find her mother's eyes fixed upon 
her; they were watching and waiting for the large young 
glance, as if her elder frame got some needful warmth from it. 



260 THS MILL ON THE FLOflB. 

The mother was getting fond of her tall, brown girl, the only 
bit of furniture now on which she could bestow her anxiety 
and pride ; and Maggie, in spite of her own ascetic wish to 
have no personal adornment, was obliged to give way to her 
mother about her hair, and submit to have the abundant black 
locks plaited into a coronet on the summit of her head, after | 
the pitiable fashion of those antiquated times. 

"Let your mother have that bit o' pleasure, my dear," said 
Mrs. Tulliver ; " I'd trouble enough with your hair once." 

So Maggie, glad of any thing that would soothe her mother, 
and cheer their long day together, consented to the vain dec- 
oration, and showed a queenly head above her old frocks— 
steadily refusing, however, to look at herself in the glass. Mrs. 
Tulliver liked to call the father's attention to Maggie's hsdr 
and other unexpected virtues, but he had a brusque reply to 
give. 

" I knew well enough what she'd be before now — ^it's noth- 
ing new to me. But it's a pity she isn't made o' commoner 
stuff; she'll be thrown away, I doubt : there'll be nobody to 
marry her as is fit for her." 

And Maggie's graces of mind and body fed his gloom. He 
sat patiently enough while she read him a chapter, or said 
something timidly when they were alone together about 
trouble being turned into a blessing. He took it all as part 
of his daughter's goodness, which made his misfortune the sad- 
der to him because they damaged her chance in life. Id a 
mind charged with an eager purpose and an unsatisfied vin- 
dictiveness, there is no room for new feelings : Mr. Tulliver 
did not want spiritual consolation; he wanted to shake off the 
degradation of debt, and to have his revenge. 



BOOK FIFTH. 

WHEAT AND TARES. 
CHAPTER L 

IK THE SED DEEPS. 

The family sitting-room was a long room with a window at 
each end ; one looking towards the croft and along the Rip- 
ple to the banks of the Floss, the other into the mill-yard. 
Maggie was sitting with her work against the latter window 
when she saw Mr. Wakem entering the yard, as usual, on his 
fine black horse ; but not alone, as usual. Some one was with 
him — a figure in a cloak, on a handsome pony. Maggie had 
hardly time to feel that it was Philip come back, before they 
were in firont of the window, and he was raising his hat to her; 
while his father, catching the movement by a side-glance, 
looked sharply round at them both, 

Maggie hurried away from the window and carried her 
work up-stairs; for Mr. Wakem sometimes came in and 
inspected the books, and Maggie felt that the meeting with 
Philip would be robbed of all pleasure in the presence of the 
two fathers. Some day, perhaps, she should see him when 
they could just shake hands, and she could tell him that 
she remembered his goodness to Tom, and the things he had 
said t© her in the old days, though they could never be friends 
any more. It was not at all agitating to Maggie to see Philip 
again : she retained her childish gratitude and pity towards 
him, and remembered his cleverness ; and in the early weeks 
of her loneliness she had continually recalled the image of him 
among the people who had been kind to her in life ; often 
wishing she had him for a brother and a teacher, ad they had 
fancied it might have been, in their talk together. But that 
sort of wishing had been banished along with other dreams 
that savored of seeking her own will; and she thought, besides, 
that Philip might be altered by his life abroad — ^he might have 
become worldly, and really not care about her saying any- 
thing to him now. And yet, his face was wonderfully little 
altered — ^it was only a larger, more manly copy of the pale 



262 THE HILL ON THE FLOSS. 

small-featured bojr's face, with the grey eyes and the boyiah 
waving brown hair : there was the old deiormity to awi^en 
the old pity ; and after all her meditations, Maggie felt that 
she really shoiUd like to say a few words to him. He might 
still be melancholy, as he always used to be, and like her to 
look at him kindly. She wondered if he remembered how he 
used to like her eyes; with that thought Maggie glanced 
towards the square looking-glass which was condemned to 
hang with its face towards the wall, and she half-started from 
her seat to reach it down; but she checked herself and 
snatched up her work, trying to repress the rising wishes by 
forcing her memory to recall snatches of hymns, until she saw 
Philip and his father returning along the road, and she could 
go down again. 

It was far on in June now, and Maggie was inclined to 
lengthen the daily walk which was' her one indulgence ; but 
this day and the following she was so busy with work whicli 
must be finished that she never went beyond the gate, and 
satisfied her need of the open air by sitting out of doors. 
One of her firequent walks, when she was not obliged to go 
to St. Ogg's, was to a spot that lay beyond what was called 
the " Hill " — an insignificant rise of ground crowned by trees, 
lying along the side of the road which ran by the gates of 
Dorlcote Mill. Insignificant I call it, because in height it was 
hardly more than a bank ; but there may come moments when 
Nature makes a mere bank a means towards a fateful result, 
and that is why I ask you to imagine this high bank crowned 
with trees, making an uneven wall for some quarter of a mile 
along the left side of Dorlcote Mill and the pleasant fields 
behind it, bounded by the murmuring Ripple. Just where 
this line of bank sloped down again to the level, a by-road 
turned off and led to the other side of the rise, where it was 
broken into very capricious hollows and mounds by thcL work- 
ing of an exhausted stone-quarry — so long exhausted that 
both mounds and hollows were now clothed with brambles 
and trees, and here and there by a stretch of grass which a 
few sheep kept close-nibbled. In her childish days Maggie 
held this place, called the Red Deeps, in very great awe, and 
needed all her confidence in Tom's bravery to reconcile her 
to an excursion thither — ^visions of robbers and fierce animals 
haunting every hollow. But now it had the chanqa for her 
which any broken ground, any mimic rock and ravine,.have for 
the eyes that rest habitually on the level ; especiallj^ in sum- 
mer, when she could sit on a grassy hollow under the shadow 
of a branching ash, stooping aslant from the steep above her, 
and listen to the hum of insects, like tiniest bells on the gar 



THB MIUi OK THE FLOSS. 268 

ment of Silence, or see the sunlight piercing the distant 
boughs, as if to chase and drive home the truant heavenly 
blue of the wild hyacinths. In this June time too, the dog- 
roses were in their glory, and that was an additional reason 
why Maggie should direct her walk to the Red Deeps, rather 
than to any other spot, on the first day she was firee to^wan- 
der at her will — 2k pleasure she loved so well, that sometimes, 
in her ardors of renunciation, she thought she ought to deny 
herself the frequent indulgence in it. 

You may see her now, as she walks down the favorite turn- 
ing, and enters the Deeps by a narrow path through a group 
of Scotch firs — ^her tall figure and old lavender-gown visible 
through an hereditary black-silk shawl of some wide-meshed 
net-like material ; and now she is sure of being unseen, she 
takes of her bonnet and ties it over her arm. One would 
certamly suppose her to be farther on in life than her seven- 
teenth year — ^perhaps because of the slow resigned sadness of 
the glance, from which all search and unrest seem to have 
departed, perhaps because her broad-chested figure has the 
mould of early womanhood. Youth and health have with- 
stood well the involuntary and voluntary hardships of her 
lot, and the nights in which she has lain on the hard floor for 
a penance have lefl no obvious trace : the eyes are liquid, the 
brown cheek is firm and rounded, the full lips are red. With 
her dark coloring and jet crown surmounting her tall figure, 
she seems to have a sort of kinship with the grand Scotch 
furs, at which she is looking up as if she 1qv^<^ thflm well^ 
Yet one^ha^i-AHMUue^ of uneainess in looking at her — o, ^nse 
of ^pp ^ing *?]fF**^^"t ^f whi^h n firrnr rnllini i m i n im r"""i^ ' 
surely there is a hushed expression, such as one often sees in 
older faces under borderless caps, out of keeping with the 
resistant youth, which one expects to flash out in a sudden, 

Sassionate glance, that will dissipate all the quietude, like a 
amped fire leaping out again when all seemed safe. 
But Maggie herself was not uneasy at this moment. She 
was calmly enjoying the free air, while she looked up at the 
old fir-trees, and thought that those broken ends of branches 
were the records of past storms, which had only made the 
red stems soar higher. But while her eyes were still turned 
upward, she became conscious of a movmg shadow cast by 
the evening sun on the grassy path before her, and looked 
down with a startled gesture to see Philip Wakem, who first 
raised his hat, and then, blushing deeply, came forward to her 
and put out his hand, Maggie, too, colored with surprise, 
which soon gave way to pleasure. She put out her hand and 
looked down ^t the deformed figure before her with frank 



I 



264 THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 

eyes, filled ibr the moment with nothing but the memory of 
her child's feelings — a memory that was always strong in her. 
She was the first to speak. 

"You startled me," she said, smiling fiuntly; "I never 
meet any one here. How came you to be walking here? 
Did you come to meet me /" 
C It was impossible not to perceive that Maggie Mt herself a 
^ child again. 

" Yes, I did," said Philip, still embarrassed: "I wished to 
see you very much. I watched a long while yesterday on the 
bank near your house to see if you would come out, but you 
never came. Then I watched a^ain to^y, and when I saw 
the way you took, I kept you m sight and came down the 
bank, behind there. I hope you will not be displeased with 
me." 

" No," said Maggie, with simple seriousness, walking on, 
as if she meant Philip to accompany her, " I'm very glad you 
came, for I wished very much to have an opportunity of speak- 
ing to you. I've never forgotten how good you were long 
4go to Tom, and me too ; but I was not sure that you would 
remember us so well. Tom and I have had a great deal of 
trouble since then, and I think that makes one think more of 
what happened before the trouble came." 

"I can't believe that you have thought of me so much as 
L have thought of you," said Philip, timidly. " Do you know, 
when I was away, I made a picture of you as you looked that 
morning in the study when you said you would not forget 
me." 

Philip drew a large miniature-case from his pocket, and 
opened it. Maggie saw her old self leaning on a table, with 
her black locks, hanging down behind her ears, looking into 
space with strange, dreamy eyes. It was a water-color sketch, 
of real merit as a portrait. 

" Oh dear," said Maggie, smiling, and flushed with pleasure, 
" what a queer little girl I was ! I remember myself with my 
hair in that way, in that pink frock. I really was like a 
gypsy. I daresay I am now," she added, after a little pause ; 
" am I like what you expected me to be ?" 

The words might have been those of a coquette, but the 
full bright glance Maggie turned on Philip was not that of a 
coquette. She really did hope he liked her face as it was now, 
but it was simply the rising again of her innate delight in 
admiration and love. Philip met her eyes and looked at her 
in silence for a long moment, before he said, quietly, " No, 
Maggie." 

The light died out a little fi*om Maggie's fitce, and there 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 266 

was a slight trembliDg of the lip. Her eyelids fell lower, but 
she did not turn away her head, and Philip continued to look 
at her. Then he said, slowly — 

" You are very much more beautiful than I thought you 
would be." 

'^ Am I ?" said Maggie, the pleasure returning in a deeper 
flush. She tmned her facea^^ay from him and took some 
steps, looking straight before her in silence, as if she were 
a<^justing her consciousness to this new idea. Girls are so 
accustomed to think of dress as the main ground of vanity, 
that, in abstaining from the looking-glass, Maggie had thought 
more of abandoning all care for adornment than of renounc- 
ing the contemplation of her fsLce. Comparing herself with 
elegant, wealthy young ladies, it had not occurred to her that 
she could produce any effect with her person. Philip seemed 
to like the silence weU. He walked by her side, watching^her 
face, as if that sight left no room for any other wish. They 
had passed from among the fir-trees, and had now come to a 
green hollow almost surrounded by an amphitheatre of the 
pale pink dog-roses. But as the light about them had bright- 
ened, Maggie's face had lost its gK>w. She stood still wnen 
they were in the hollows, and, looking at Philip again, she said 
in a serious, sad voice — 

" I wish we could have been friends — ^I mean, if it would 
have been good and right for us. But that is the trial I have 
to bear in everything : I may not keep anything I used to love 
when I was little. The old books went ; and Tom is d^erent ^ 
^-and my fkther. It is like death. I must part with every-^ > 
thing I cared for when I was a child. And 1 must part wiui / 
you : we must never take any notice of each other again. 
That was what I wanted to speak to you for. I wanted to let 
you know that Tom and I can't do as we like about such 
things, and that if I behave as if I had forgotten all about 
you, it is not out of envy or pride-^or— or any bad feeling." 

Maggie spoke with more and more sorrowful gentleness as 
she went on, and her eyes be^n to fill with tears. The deep- 
ening expression of pain on l^hilip's face gave him a stronger 
resemblance to his boyish sel^ and made the deformity appeal 
more strongly to her pity. 

'* I know — ^I see all that you mean," he sidd, in a voice that 
had become feebler from discouragement: ^^I know what 
there is to keep us apart on both sides. But it is not right, 
Maggie — don't you be angry with me, I am so used to call 
you Maggie in my thoughts — ^it is not right to sacrifice every- 
thing to other people's unreasonable feelings. I would give 
up a great deal K>r my &ther; but I would not give up a 

M 



266 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

friendship or — or an attachment of any sort, in obedience to 
any wish of his that I didn't recognise as right." 

" I don't know," said Maggie, musingly. " Often, when I 
have been angry and discontented, it has seemed to me that I 
was not bound to give up anything; and I have gone on 
thinking till it has seemed to me that I could think away all 
my duty. But no good has ever come of that — ^it was an 
evil state of mind. I'm quite sure that whatever I might do, 
I should wish in the end that I had gone without anything for 
myseU^ rather than have made my £skther's life harder to hinL'' 

'^ But would it make his life harder, if we were to see each 
other sometimes ?" said Philip. He was going to say some- 
thing else, but checked himsel£ 

" Oh, I'm sure he wouldn't like it. Don't ask me why, oi 
anythinj^ about it," said Maggie, in a distressed tone. ^' My 
father reels so strongly about some things. He is not at all 
happy." 

" No more am I," said Philip, impetuously : " T am not 
happy." 

" Why ?" said Maggie, gently. " At least — ^I ought not to 
ask^-but I'm very, very sorry." 

Philip turned to walk on, as if he had not patience to stand 
still any longer, and they went out of the hollow, winding 
amongst the trees and bushes in silence. After that last word 
of Philip's, Maggie could not bear to insist immediately on 
their parting. 

" I've been a great deal happier," she said at last, timidly, 
" since I have given up thinking about what is easy and plea- 
sant, and being discontented because I couldn't have my own 
will. Ouj life is determined for us — and it mohoo th e mind 
very free when we give up wishing, and only think of bearing 
what is laid upon us, and doing what is given us lo do.'' 

" But I can't give up wishing/' said Philip, impatiently. 
" It seems to me we can never give up longing and wishing 
while we are thoroughly alive. There are certain things we 
feel to be beautiful and good, and we must hunger after them. 
How can we ever be satisfied without them until our feelings 
are deadened ? I delight in fine pictures — I long to be able 
to paint such. I strive and strive, and can't produce what I 
want. That is pain to me, and always wiU be pain, until my 
faculties lose their keenness, like aged eyes. Then there are 
many other things I long for " — here Philip hesitated a little, 
and then said — " things that other men have, and that will 
always be denied me. My life will have nothing great or 
beautiful in it ; I would rather not have Hved." 

"Oh, Philip," said Maggie, "I wish you didn't feel sa" 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 267 

Bat her heart began to beat with something of Philip's dis- 
content. 

« WeU, then," said he, turning quickly round and fixing his 
grey eyes entreatingly in her face, " I should be contented to 
live, if you would let me see you sometimes." Then, checked 
by a fear which her face suggested, he looked away again, 
and said more calmly, " I have no friend to whom I can tell 
everything — ^no one who cares enough about me ; and if I 
could only see you now and then, and you would let me talk 
to you a little, and show me that you cared for me — ^and that 
we may always be friends in heart, and help each other — ^then 
I might come to be glad of life." 

" Sut how can I see you, Philip ?" said Maggie, falteringly. 
(Could she really do him good ? It would be verj^ hard to 
say " good-by " this day, and not speak to him agam. Here 
was a new interest to vary the days — it was so much easier 
to renounce the interest before it came.) 

" If you would let me see you here sometimes — ^walk with 
you here — ^I would be contented if it were only once or twice 
in a month. TJiat could injure no one's happiness, and it 
would sweeten my life. Besides," Philip went on, with all 
the inventive astuteness of love at one-and-twenty, " if there 
is any enmity between those who belong to us, we ought all 
the more to try and quench it by our friendship— I mean, that 
by our influence on both sides we might bring about the 
healing of the wounds that have been made in Uie past, if I 
could know everything about them. And I don't believe 
there is any enmity in my own father's mind : I think he has 
proved the contrary." 

Maggie shook her head slowly, and was silent, under con- 
flicting thoughts. It seemed to her inclination, that to see 
Philip now and then, and keep up the bond of friendship with 
him, was something not only innocent, but good: perhaps 
she mi^ht really help him to find contentment, as she had 
found It. The voice that said this made sweet music to 
Mag^e ; but athwart it there came an urgent monotonous 
wammg from another voice which she had been learning to 
obey : the warning that such interviews implied secresy — ^im- 
plied doing something she would dread to be discovered in — 
something that, if discovered, must cause anger and pain ; 
and that the admission of anything so near doubleness would 
act as a spiritual blight. 3c et the music would swell out 
again, like chimes borne onward by a recurrent breeze, per- 
suading her that the wrong lay all in the faults and weaknesses 
of others, and that there was such a thing as futile sacrifice 
for one to the ii\jury of another. It was very cruel for Philip 



268 THB MILL ON THB FLOSB. 

that he should be shnmk ii*om, because of an unjustifiable 
vindictiveness towards his father — ^poor Philip, whom some 
people would shrink from only because he was deformed. 
The idea that he might become her lover, or that her meeting 
him could cause disapproval in that light, had not occurred 
to her ; and Philip saw the absence of this idea clearly enough 
— saw it with a certain pang, although it made her consent 
to his request the less unlikely. There was bitterness to him 
in the perception that Maggie was almost as frank and uncon- 
strained towards him as when she was a child. 

^' I can't say either yes or no," she said at last, turning 
round and walking towards the way she had come ; ^^ I must 
wait, lest I should decide wrongly. I must seek for guid- 
ance." 

" May I come again, then — ^to-mortrow— or the next day— 
or next week ?" 

'^ I think I had better write," said Maggie, faltering agaio. 
^' I have to go to St. Ogg's sometimes, and I can put the 
letter in the post." 

" O no," said Philip, eagerly ; *' that would not be so well 
My father might see the letter — and — ^he has not any enmity, 
I believe, but he views things differently from me: he thiiiks 
a great deal about wealth and position. Pray let me come 
here once more. TeU me when it shall be ; or if you can't 
tell me, I will come as often as I can till I do see you." 

" I think it must be so, then," said Maggie, " for I can't be 
certain of coming here any particular evening." ~ 

Maggie felt a great relief in adjourning the decision. She 
was free now to enjoy the minutes of companionship: she 
almost thought she might linger a little ; the next time they 
met she should have to pain Philip by telling him her deter- 
mination. 

" I can't help thinking," she said, looking smilingly at him, 
after a few moments of silence, " how strange it is that we 
should have met and talked to each other, just as if it had 
been only yesterday when we parted at Lorton. And yet we 
must both be very much altered in those five years — ^I think 
it is five years. How was it that you seemed to have a sort 
of feeling that I was the same Maggie ? — ^I was not quite so 
sure that you would be the same : 1 know you are so clever, 
and you must have seen and learnt so much to fill your mind : 
I was not quite sure you would care about me now." 

" I have never had any doubt that you would be the same, 
whenever I might see you," said Philip. " I mean, the same 
in everything that made me like you better than any one else. 
I don't want to explain that : I don't tMoJj: any of tne strong- 



THB MILL ON THB FLOSS. 260 

est effects onr natures are susceptible of can can ever be 
explained. We can neither detect the process by which they 
are arrived at, nor the mode in which they act on ns. The 
greatest of painters only once painted a mysteriously divine 
child ; he couldn't have told how he did it, and we can't teU 
why we feel it to be divine. I think there are stores laid up 
in our human nature that our understandings can make no 
complete inventory of. Certain strains of music affect me so 
strangely — ^I can never hear them without changing my whole 
attitude of mind for a time, and if the effsct would last, I 
might be capable of heroisms." 

" Ah I I know what you mean about music— JT feel so," 
said Maggie, clasping her hands with her old impetuosity. 
^' At least," she added, in a saddened tone, " I used to feel so 
when I had any music : I never have any now, except the 
organ at church." 

" And you long for it, Maggie ?" said Philip, looking at her 
with affectionate pity. " Ah, you can have very little that is 
beautiful in your life. Have you many books ? You were so 
fond of them when you were a little girl." 

They were come back to the hollow, round which the dog- 
roses grew, and they both paused under the charm of the 
&ery evening light, reflected from the pale-pink clusters. 

*' No, I have given up books," said Maggie, quietly, " except 
a very, very few." 

Philip had already taken from his pocket a small volume, 
and was looking at the back, as he said — 

" Ah, this is the second volume, I see, else you might have 
liked to take it home with you. I put it in my pocket 
because I am studying a scene for a picture." 

Maggie had looked at the back too, and saw the title : it 
revived an old impression with overmastering force. 

" ' The Pirate,' " she said, taking the book from Philip's 
hands. " Oh, I began that once ; I read to where Minna is 
walking with Cleveland, and I could never get to read the 
rest. I went on with it in my own head, and I made several 
endings ; but they were all unhappy. I could never make a 
happy ending out of that beginning. Poor Minna I I wonder 
what is the real end. For a long while I couldn't get my 
mind away from the Shetland Isles — ^I used to feel the wind 
blowing on me from the rough sea." 

Magffie spoke rapidly, with glistening eyes. 

" Take that volume home with you, Maggje," said Philip, 
watching her with delight. " I don't want it now. I shall 
make a picture of you instead — ^you, among the Scotch firs 
and the slanting shadows." 



270 THB MILL ON THE FLOBS. 

Maggie had not heard a word he had said: she -was 
absorbed in a page at which she had opened. Bat saddenly 
she closed the book, and gave it back to PhOip, shaking her 
head with a backward movement, as if to say " avannt " to 
floating visions. 

"Do keep it, Maggie," said Philip, entreadngly ; " it will 
give you pleasure." 

" Noy tnank you," said Maggie, putting it aside with her 
hand, and wallong on. " It would make me in love with this 
world again, as I used to be — ^it would make me long to see 
and know many things — ^it would make me long for a foil 
life." 

"But you will not always be shut up in your present lot: 
why should you starve your mind in that way ? It is narrow 
ascetidsm — ^I don't like to see you persisting in it, Maggie. 
Poetry and art and knowledge are sacred and pure." 

" But not for me — ^not for me," said Maggie, walking more 
hurriedly. " Because I should want too much. I must wait 
— ^this life will not last long." 

"Don't hurry away from me without saying *good-by,' 
Maggie," said Philip, as they reached the group of Scotch 
firs, and she continued still to walk along without speaking. 
" I must not go any ferther, I think, must I ? " 

" Oh no, I forgot ; good-by," said Maggie, pausing, and 
putting out her hand to him. The action brought her feeling 
back in a strong current to Philip ; and after they had stood 
looking at each other in silence for a few moments, with their 
hands clasped, she $aid, withdrawing her hand, 

" I'm very grateftd to you for thinking of me all those 
years. It is very sweet to have people love us. What a 
wonderful, beautiful thing it seems that God should have made 
your heart so that you could care about a queer little eirl 
whom you only knew for a few weeks. I remember saymg 
to you, that I thought you cared for me more than Tom did." 

" Ah, Maggie," said Philip, almost fretfiilly, " you would 
never love me so well as you love your brother." 

" Perhaps not," said Maggie, simply ; " but then, you know, 
the first thing I ever remember in my life is standing with 
Tom by the side of the Floss, while he held my hand : every- 
thing before that is dark to me. But I shall never forget 
you — though we must keep apart." 

" Don't say so, Maggie," said Philip. " If I kept that little 
girl in my mind for five years, didn't I earn some part in her? 
She ought not to take herself quite away from me." 

" Not if I were free," said Maggie ; " but I am not — ^I must 
submit." She hesitated a moment and then added, " And I 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 271 

wanted to say to you, that you had better not take more 
notice of my brother than just bowing to him. He once told me 
not to speak to you again, and he doesn't change his mind. 
. . . Oh dear, the sun is set. I am too long away. Good- 
by." She gave him her hand once more. 

" I shall come here as often as I can, tiU I see you again, 
Maggie. Hiive some feeling for me ias well as for others." 

" Yes, yes, I have," said Maggie, hurrying away, and quickly 
disappearing behind the last fir-tree; though Philip's gaze 
after her remained immovable for minutes, as if he saw her 
still. 

Maggie went home, with an inward conflict already begun ; 
Philip went home to do nothing but remember and hope. 
You can hardly help blaming him severely. He was four or 
fiYe years older than Maggie, and had a ndl consciousness of 
his feeling towards her to aid him in foreseeing the character 
his contemplated interviews with her would bear in the opinion 
of a third person. But you must not suppose that he was 
capable of a gross selfishness, or that he could have been 
satisfie<J^ivithout persuading himself that he was seeking to 
infuse some happmess into Maggie's life — seeking this even 
more than any direct ends for himself. He could give her 
sympathy — ^he could give her help. There was not the 
slightest promise of love towards him in her manner ; it was 
nothing more than the sweet girlish tenderness she had shown 
him when she was twelve : perhaps she would never love him 
— ^perhaps no woman ever couM love him; well, then, he 
would endure that ; he should at least have the happiness of 
seeing her — of feeling some nearness to her. And he clutched 
passionately the possibility that she might love him : perhaps 
the feeling would grow, if she could come to associate him 
with that watchful tenderness which her nature would be so 
keenly alive to. If any woman could love him, surely Maggie 
was that woman : there was such wealth of love in her, and 
there was no one to claim it all. Then — ^the pity of it, that a 
mind like hers should be withering in its very youth, like a 
young forest tree, for want of the light and space it was 
formed to flourish in I Could he not hinder that, by persuad- 
ing her out of her system of privation ? He would be her 
guardian angel ; he would do anything, bear anything for her 
sake — except not seeing her. 



i 



CHAPTER n. 

ATINT 6LBQG LEABNS THE BREADTH OF BOB'S THTTHB. 

While Maggie's life-struggles had lain alinost entirely within 
her own som, one shadowy army fidbiting another, and the 
dain shadows for ever rising again, Tom was engaged in a 
dustier, noisier warfare, grappling with uiore substantial 
obstacles, and gaining more definite conquests. So it has been 
since the days of Hecuba, and of Hector, Tamer of horses: 
inside the gates, the women with streaming hair and uplifted 
hands offering prayers, watching the world's combat from 
afar, filling their long, empty days with memories and fears: 
outside, the men in fierce struggle with things divine and 
hiunan, quenching memory in the stronger li^ht of purpose, 
losing the sense of dread and even of wounds m the hurrying 
ardor of action. ** 

From what you have seen of Tom, I think he is not a youth 
of whom you would prophesy failure in anything he had 
thoroughly wished : the wagers are likely to be on his side, 
notwithstanding his small success in the classics. For Tom 
had never desired success in this field of enterprise ; and for 
getting a fine flourishing growth Of stupidity there is nothing 
like pouring out on a mind a good amount of subjects in 
which it feels no interest. But now Tom's strong will bound 
together his integrity, his pride, his family regrets, and his 
personal ambition, and made them one force, concentrating 
his efforts and surmounting discouragements. His uncle 
Deane, who watched him closely, soon began to conceive hopes 
of him, and to be rather proud that he had brought into the 
employment of the firm a nephew who appeared to be made 
of such good commercial stuff. The real kindness of placing 
him in the warehouse first was soon evident to Tom, in the 
hints his uncle began to throw out, that after a time he might 
perhaps be trusted to travel at certain seasons, and buy in for 
the firm various vulgar commodities with which I need not 
shock refined ears in this place ; and it was doubtless with a 
view to this that Mr. Deane, when he expected to take his 
wine alone, would tell Toin to step in and sit with him an 
hour, and would pass that hour in much lecturing and cate- 
chising concerning articles of export and import, with an 
occasional excursus of more indirect utility on the relative 
advantages to the merchants of St. Ogg's of having goods 



THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 273 

brought in their own and in foreign bottoms — a subject an 
which Mr. Dean, as a shipowner, naturally threw off a few 
sparks when he got warmed with talk and wine. Already, in 
the second year, Tom's salary was raised ; but all, except the 
price of his dinner and clothesj" if^rent home into the tin box ; 
and he shunned comradeship, lest it should lead him into 
expenses in spite of himself. Not that Tom was moulded on 
the spoony type of the Industrious Apprentice ; he had a 
very strong appetite for pleasure — would have liked to be a 
Tamer of horses, and to make a distinguished figure in all 
neighboring eyes, dispensing treats and benefits to others with 
well-judged liberaUty, and being pronounced one of the finest 
young fellows of those parts ; nay, he determined to achiieve 
these things sooner or later ; but his practical shrewdness told 
him that the means to such achievements could only He for him 
in present abstinence and self-denial : there were certain mile- 
stones to be passed, and one of the first was the payment of 
his father's debts. Having made up his mind on that point, he 
strode along without swerving, contrsCcting some rather satur- 
nine stemrfess, as a young man is likely to do who has a prema- 
ture call upon him for self-reliance. Tom felt intensely that 
common cause with his fiither which springs from &mily pride, 
and was bent on being irreproachable as a son ; but his grow- 
ing experience caused him to pass much silent criticism on the 
rashness and imprudence of his father's past conduct ; their 
dispositions were not in sympathy, and Tom's face showed 
little radiance during his few home hours. Maggie had an 
awe of him, against which she struggled as something unfair 
to her consciousness of wider thoughts and deeper motives ; 
but it was of no use to struggle. A character at unity with 
itself— that performs what it intends, subdues every counter- 
acting impulse, and has no visions beyond the distinctly possi- 
ble — ^is strong by its very negations. 

You may imagine that Tom's more and more obvious 
nnlikeness to his lather was well fitted to conciliate the mater- 
nal aunts and uncles ; and Mr. Deane's favorable reports and 
predictions to Mr. Glegg concerning Tom's qualifications for 
business, began to be discussed amongst them with various 
acceptance. He was likely, it appeared, to do the familv 
credit, without causing it any expense and trouble. Mrs. Pul- 
let had always thought it strange if Tom's excellent com- 
plexion, so entirely that of the Dodsons, did not argue a cer- 
tainty that he would turn out well, his juvenile errors of run- 
ning down the peacock, and general disrespect to his aunts, 
only indicating a tinge of Tumver blood which he had doubt- 
less outgrown. Mr. Glegg, who had contracted a cautious 



274 THB MILL ON THB FL0B8. 

liking for lorn ever since his spirited and sensible behavior 
when the execution was in the house, was now wanning into 
a resolution to further his prospects actively — some time, 
when an opportunity offered of doing so in a prudent manner, 
without ultimate loss ; but Mrs. Glegg observed that she was not 
given to speak without book, as some people were ; that those 
who said least were most likely to find their words made good; 
and when the right moment came, it would be seen who could 
do something better than talk. Uncle PuUet, a^r silent 
meditation for a period of several lozenges, came distinctly 
to the conclusion, that when a young man was likely to do 
well, it was better not to meddle with him. 

Tom, meanwhile, had shown no disposition to rely on any 
one but himself, though, with a natural sensitiveness towards 
all indications of favorable opinion, he was ^lad to see his imde 
Glegg look in on him sometimes in a friendly way during 
business hours, and glad to be invited to dine at his house, 
though he usually preferred declining on the ground that he 
was not sure of bemg punctual. But about a year ago, some- 
thing had occurred which induced Tom to test > his unde 
Glegg's friendly disposition. 

Bob Jakin, who rarely returned from one of his rounds with- 
out seeing Tom and Maggie, awaited him on the bridge as he 
was coming home from St. Ogg's one evening, that they might 
have a little private talk. He took the liberty of asking if 
Mr. Tom had ever thought of making money by trading a bit 
on his own account. Trading, how V Tom wished to know. 
Why, by sending out a bit of a cargo to foreign ports ; because 
Bob had a particular friend who had offered to do a little 
business for him in that way in Laceham goods, and would be 
glad to serve Mr. Tom on the same footing. Tom was inte- 
rested at once, and begged for full explanation ; wondering he 
had not thought of this plan before. He was so well pleased 
with the prospect of a speculation that might change the slow 
process of addition into multiplication, that he at once deter- 
mined to mention the matter to his father, and get his consent 
to appropriate some of the savings in the tin box to the 
purchase of a small cargo. He would rather not have con- 
sulted his father, but he had just paid his last quarter's money 
into the tin box, and there was no other resource. All the 
savings were there ; for Mr. Tulliver would not consent to put 
the money out at interest lest he should lose it. Since he had 
speculated in the purchase of some com and had lost by it, he 
could not be easy without keeping the money under his 
eye. 

Tom approached the subject carefully, as he was seated on 



THi! MILL ON TBM FLOSS. 275 

the hearth with his father that evening, and Mr. Tulliver 
listened, leaning forward in his arm-chair and looking up in 
Tom's face with a sceptical glance. His first impulse was to 
give a positive refusal, hut he was in some awe of Tom's 
wishes, and since he had had the sense of being an " unlucky" 
£ither, he had lost some of his old peremptoriness, and deter- 
mination to be master. He took the key of the bureau from 
his pocket, got out the key of the large chest, and fetched 
down the tin box — slowly, as if he were trying to defer the 
moment of a painful parting. Then he seated himself against 
the table, and opened the box with that little padlodc-key 
which he fingered in his waistcoat pocket in all vacant mo- 
ments. There they were, the dingy bank-notes and the bright 
sovereigns, and he counted them out on the table — only a 
hundred and sixteen pounds in two years, after aU the 
pinching. 

"How much do you want, then?" he said, speaking as if 
the words burnt his lips. 

*' Suppose I begin with the thirty-six pounds, father?" said 
Tom. 

Mr. TuUiver separated this sum from the rest, and keeping 
his hand over it, said — 

" It's as much as I can save out o' my pay in a year." 

"Yes, father: it is such slow work — saving out of the 
little money we get. And in this way we might double our 
savings." 

"Ay, my lad," said the father, keeping his hand on the 
money, " but you might lose it — ^you might lose a year o' my 
ufe — and I haven't got many." 

Tom was silent. 

" And you know I wouldn't pay a dividend with the first 
hundred, because I wanted to see it all in a lump— -and when 
I see it, I'm sure on't. If you trust to luck, it's sure to be 
against ine. It's Old Harry's got the luck in his hands ; and 
ifl lose one year, I shall never pick it up again — death 'ull over- 
take me." 

Mr. Tulliver's voice trembled, and Tom was silent for a few 
minutes before he said — 

"Bl give it up, father, since you object to it so strongly." 

But, unwilling to abandon the scheme altogether, he deter- 
mined to ask his unde Glegg to venture twenty pounds, on 
condition of receivrng ^ye per cent, of the profits. That was 
really a very small thing to ask. So when Bob called the next 
day at the wharf to know the decision, Tom proposed that 
they should go together to his uncle Glegg's to open the busi- 
ness; for his diffident pride clang to him, and made him feel 



276 TBS MILL ON THS FLOSS* 

that BoVb tongae would relieve him from some embar- 
Tassment. 

Mr. Glegg, at the pleasant hour of four in the afternoon of 
a hot Angust day, was naturally counting his wall-fruit to 
assure himself that the sum total had not varied ranee yester- 
day. To him entered Tom, in what appeared to Mr. Glegg 
very questionable companionship : that of a man with a pack 
on his back — ^for Bob was equipped for a new journey — and 
of a huge brindled bull-terrier, who walked with a slow sway- 
ing movement from side to side, and glanced from under lus 
eyelids with a surly indifference which might after all be a 
cover to the most offensive designs. Mr. Glegg's spectacles, 
which had been assisting him in counting the fruit, niade these 
suspicious details alarmingly evident to him. 

** Heigh I heigh ! keep that dog back, will you ?" he shouted, 
snatching up a stake and hold^g it before him as a shield 
when the visitors were within three yards of him. 

" Get out wi' you. Mumps," said Bob, with a kick. "He's 
as quiet as a lamb, sir," — an observation which Mumps corro- 
borated by a low growl as he retreated behind his mastei^ 

legs. 

" Why, whatever does this mean, Tom ?" said Mr. Glegg. 
" Have you brought information about the scoundrels as cut 
my trees ?" If Bob came in the character of " information," 
Mr. Glegg saw reasons for tolerating some irregularity. 

" No, sir," said Tom : " I came to speak to you about a 
little matter of business of my own." 

" Ay — ^well — ^but what has this dog got to do with it ?" said 
the old gentleman, getting mild again. 

" It's my dog, sir," said the ready Bob. " An' it's me as 
put Mr. Tom up to the bit o' business ; for Mr. Tom's been a 
friend o' mine iver since I was a little chap : ftist thine ivir I 
did was frightenin' the birds for th' old master. An' if a bit 
o' luck turns up, I'm allays thinkin' if I can let Mr. Tom have 
a pull at it. An' it's a downright roarin' shame, as when he's 
got the chance o' making a bit o' mmiey wi' sending goods 
out — ^ten or twelve per zent clear, when freight an' commis- 
sion's paid — as he shouldn't lay hold o' the chance for want o' 
money. An' when there's the Laceham goods — ^lors I they're 
made o' purpose for folks as want to send out a little carguy ; 
light, an' take up no room — ^you may pack twenty pound so 
as you can't see the passOl : an' they're manifacturs as please 
fools, so I reckon they aren't like to want a market. An' I'd 
go to Laceham an' buy in the goods for Mr. Tom along wi' 
my own. An' there's the shupercargo o' the bit of a vessel 
as is goin' to take 'em out — ^1 know him particular ; he's a 



THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 277 

solid man, an^ got a ^mily i' the town here. Salt, his name 
is — an' a briny chap he is too— an' if you don't believe me, I 
can take you to him." 

Uncle Glegff stood open-mouthed with astonishment at this 
unembarrassed loquacitjj, with which his understanding could 
hardly keep pace. He looked at Bob, first over his spectacles, 
then through them, then over them again ; while Tom, doubt- 
ful of his uncle's impression, began to wish he had not brought 
this singular Aaron or mouthpiece : Bob's talk appeared less 
seemly, now some one besides himself was listening to it. 

" xou seem to be a knowing fellow," said Mr. Glegg, at 
last. 

" Ay, sir, you say true," returned Bob, nodding his head 
aside ; " I think my head's all alive inside like an old cheese, 
for I'm so full o' plans, one knocks another over. If I hadn't 
Mumps to talk to, I should get top-heavy an' tumble in a fit. 
I suppose it's because I niver went to school much. That's 
what I jaw my old mother for. I says ' you should ha' sent 
me to school a bit more,' I says — * an' then I could ha' read i' 
the books like fun, an' kep' my head cool an' empty.' Lors, 
she's fine an' comfor'ble now, my old mother is : she ates her 
baked meat an' taters as often as she likes. For I'm gettin' 
so full o' money, I must hev a wife to spend it for me. But 
it's botherin', a wife is — and Muinps mightn't like her." 

Uncle Glegg, who regarded himself as a jocose man since 
he had retired from busmess, was beginning to find Bob amus- 
ing, but he had still a disapproving (H)servation to make which 
kept his face serious. 

" Ah," he said, " I should think you're at a loss for ways o' 
spending your money, else you wouldn't keep that big dog, 
to eat as much as two Christians, It's shameful — shameful I " 
But he spoke more in sorrow than in anger, and quickly 
added — 

" But, come now, let's hear more about this business, Tom. 
I suppose you want a little sum to make a venture with. 
But Where's all your own money ? You don't spend it all 
—eh ? " 

" No, sir," said Tom coloring ; "but my father is unwilling 
to risk it, and I dont like to press him. If I could get twenty 
or thirty pounds to begin with, I could pay five per cent, for 
it, and then I could- gradually make a little capital of my own, 
and do without a loan." 

" Ay .... ay," said Mr. Glegg, in an approving tone ; 
"that's not a bad notion, and I won't say as I wouldn't be 
your man. But it'll be as well for me to see this Salt, as you 
talk on. And then » . . . here's this friend o' yours effect ^<^ 



278 THB MILL ON THE FL0S8. 

buy the goods for you. Perhaps you've got somebody to 
stand surety for you if the money's put into your hands ?" 
added the cautious old gentleman, looking over his spectacles 
at Bob. 

" I don't think that's necessary, uncle," said Tom. " At 
least, I mean it would not be necessary for me, because I 
know Bob well ; t)ut perhaps it would be right for you to 
have some security." 

" You get your per centage out o' the purchase, I suppose ?" 
said Mr. Gllegg, looking at Bob. 

"No, sir," said Bob, rather indignantly ; " I didn't offer to 
get a apple for Mr. Tom, o' purpose to hev a bite out of it 
myself. When I play folks tncks there'll be more fun in 'em 
nor that." 

" Well, but it's nothing but right you should have a small 
per centage," said Mr. Slegg. " I've . no opinion o' transac- 
tions where folks do things for nothing. It allays looks 
bad." 

" Well, then," said Bob, whose keenness saw at once what 
was implied, " I'll tell you what I get by't, an' it's money in 
my podket in the end : — ^I make myself look big, wi' maHn' a 
bigger purchase. That's what I'm thinking on. Lors! I'm 
a 'cute chap — ^I am." 

" Mr. Glegg, Mr. Glegg," said a severe voice from the 
open parlor window, " pray are you coming in to tea ?■— or 
are you going to stand talking with packmen till you get 
murdered in the open daylight ?" 

"Murdered?" said Mr. Glegg; "what's the woman talk- 
ing of? Here's ^your nephey Tom come about a bit o' 
business." 

" Murdered — ^yes — it isn't many 'sizes ago, since a packman 
murdered a young woman in a lone place, and stole her 
thimble, and threw her body into a ditch." 

" Nay, nay," said Mr. Glegg, soothingly, " you're thinking 
o' the man wi' no legs, as drove a dog-cart." 

" Well, it's the same thing, Mr. Glegg — only you're fond o' 
contradicting what I say ; and if my nepheys come about 
business, it 'ud be more fitting if you'd bring him into the 
house, and let his aunt know about it, instead o' whispering in 
comers, in that plotting, underminding way." 

" Well, well," said Mr. Glegg, "we'll come in now." 

I' You needn't stay here," said the lady to Bob, in a loud 
voice, adapted to the moral not the physical distance between 
them. " We don't want anything. I don't deal wi' packmen. 
Mind you shut the gate after you." 

"Stop a bit; not so fest," said Mr. Glegg: "I haven't 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 219 

done with this young man yet. Come in, Tom ; come in," 
he added, stepping in at the French window. 

"Mr. Glegg," said Mrs. G., in a fatal tone, "if you're 
going to let that man and his dog in on my carpet, before 
my very face, be so good as to let me know. A wife's 
got a right to ask that, I hope." 

" Don't you be uneasy, mum," said Bob, touching his cap. 
He saw at once that Mrs. Glegg was a bit of game worth 
running down, and longed to be at the sport ; " we'll stay 
out upo' the gravel here — ^Mumps and me will. Mumps 
knows his company — ^he does. I might hish at him by th' 
hour together, before he'd fly at a real gentlewoman like you. 
It's wonderful how he knows which is the good-looking 
ladies — and's partic'lar fond of 'em when they've good 
shapes. Lors !" added Bob, laying down his pack on the 
gravel, " it's a thousand pities sugh a lady as you shouldn't 
deal with a packman, i'stead o' goin' into these newfangled 
shops, where there's half-a-dozen fine gents wi' their chins 
propped up wi' a stiff stock, a-looking like bottles wi' orna- 
mental stoppers, an' all got to get their dinner out of a bit o' 
calico : it Stan's to reason you must pay three times the price 
you pay a packman, as is the nat'ral way o' gettin' goods — 
an' pays no rent, an' isn't forced to throttle himself till the 
lies are squeezed out on him, whether he will or no. But 
lors I mum, you know what it is better nor I do — you can see 
through them shopmen, I'll be bound." 

"Yes, I reckon I can, and through the packmen too," 
observed Mrs. Glegg, intending to imply that Bob's flattery 
had produced no effect on her ; while her husband, standing 
behind her with his hands in his pockets and legs apart, 
winked and smiled with conjugal delight at the probability of 
his wife's being circumvented. 

" Ay, to be sure, mum," said Bob. " Why, you must ha' 
dealt wi' no end o' packmen when you war a young lass — 
before the master here had the luck to set eyes on you. I 
know where you lived, I do— seen th' house many a time — 
close upon Squire Darleigh's — ^a stone house wi' steps . . . ." 

" Ah, that it had," said Mrs. Glegg, pouring out the tea. 
"You know something o' my fanuly then .... are you 
akin to that packman with a squint in his eye, as used to 
bring th' Irish linen ?" 

"Look you there now!" said Bob, evasively. "Didn't I 
know as you'd remember the best bargsuns you've made ia 
your life was made wi' packmen ? Why, you see, even a 
squintin' packman's better nor a shopman as can see straight. 
liOrsI if I'd had the luck to call at the stone house wi' my 



280 THB XILL ON THS 1I<068. 

pad^ as lies here," — stooping and thumping the bundle 
emphadcallj whh his fist, — ^ an' th> handsome young lasses 
all stannin* oat on the stone steps, it 'ad ha' l>een sammst 
like openin' a pack — that woald. It's on'y the poor hoases 
now as a packman calls on, if it isnt for the sake o' the sar- 
vant-maids. They're paltry times — these are. Why, mom, 
look at the printed cottons now, an' what they was when yon 
wore 'em — why, yoa wouldn't pat sach a thing on now, I 
can see. It mast be first-rate qaahty — the mani&ctur as 
you'd buy — summat as 'ud wear as wdl your own faituies." 

" Yes, better quality nor any you're like to carry : you've 
got nothing first-rate but brazenness, m be bound," said Mrs. 
Glegg, with a triumphant sense of her insurmountable sagacity. 
** Mr. Glegg, are you going ever to sit down to your tea? 
Tom, there's a cup for you." 

" You speak true there, flium," said Bob. " My pack isn't 
for ladies like you. The time's gone by for that. Bargains 
picked up dirt cheap ! A bit o' damage here an' there, as can 
be cut out, or else never seen i' the wearin' ; but not fit to 
offer to rich folks as can pay for the look o' things as nobody 
sees. I am not the man as 'ud offer t' open my pack to ycUy 
mum : no, no ; I'm a imperent chap, as you say — these times 
makes folks imperent — ^but I'm not up to the mark o' that." 

" Why, what goods do you carry in your pack?" said Mrs. 
Glegff. " Fine-colored things, I suppose — shawls an' that ?" 

" All sorts, mum, all sorts," said Bob, thumping his bundle : 
" but let us say no more about that, if you please. I'm here 
upo' Mr. Tom's business, an' I'm not the man to take up the 
time wi' my own." 

" And pray, what is this business as is to be kept from me?" 
said Mrs. Glegg, who, solicited by a double curiosity, was 
obliged to let the one-half wait. 

" A little plan o' nephey Tom's here," said good-natured 
Mr. Glegg ; " and not altogether a bad 'un, I thmk. A little 
plan for making money: that's the right sort o' plan for 
young folks as have got their foitin' to make, eh, Jane ?" 

" But I hope it isn't a plan where he expects iverything to 
be done for him by his friends : that's what the young K>lks 
think of mostly nowadays. And pray, what has this packman 
got to do wi' what goes on in our family ? Can't you speak 
for yourself, Tom, and let your aunt know things, as a nephey 
should ?" 

" This is Bob Jakin, aunt," said Tom, bridling the irritation 
that aunt Glegg's voice always produced. " Pvelaiown him 
ever since we were little boys. He's a very good fellow, and 
always ready to do me a Idndness. And he has had some 



THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 281 

experience in sending goods out — ^a small part of a cargo as 
a private speculation ; and he thinks if I could begin to do a 
little in the same way, I might make some money. A large 
interest is got in that way." 

" Large int'rest ?" said aunt Glegg, with eagerness ; " and 
what do you call large int'rest ?" 

"Ten or twelve per cent.,*Bob says, ^Wter expenses are 
paid." 

" Then why wasn't I let to know o' such things before, Mr. 
Glegg ?" said Mrs. Glegg, turning to her husband, with a 
deep grating tone of reproach. " Haven't you allays told me 
as there was no getting more nor five per cent." 

**'Pooh, pooh, nonsense, my good woman," said Mr. Glegg. 
** You couldn't go into trade, could you ? You can't get 
more than five per cent, with security." 

" But I can turn a bit o' monev for you, an' welcome, 
mum," said Bob, " if you'd like to nsk it — not as there's any 
risk to speak on. But if you'd a mind to lend a bit o' money 
to Mr. Tom, he'd pay you six or seven per zent, an' get a 
trifle for himself as well ; an' a good-natur'd lady like you 
'ud like the feel o' the money better if your nephey took part 
on it." 

" What do you say, Mrs. G. ?" said Mr. Glegg. " Tve a 
notion, when I've made a bit more inquiry, as I shaU perhaps 
start Tom here with a bit of a nest-egg — ^he'U pay me mt'rest, 
you know — an' if you've got some Httle simis lyin' idle twisted 
up in a stockin' toe, or that . . . ." 

" Mr. Glegg, it's beyond iverything I You'U go and give 
information to the tramps next, as they may come and rob 
me." 

"Well, well, as I was sayin', if you like to join me wi' 
twenty pounds, you can — ^I'll make it fifty. That'U be a 
pretty good nest-egg — eh, Tom?" 

" You're not counting on me, Mr. Glegg, I hope," said his 
wife. "You could do fine things wi' my money I don't 
doubt." 

"Very well," said Mr. Glegg, rather snappishly, "then 
we'll do without you. I shall go with you to see this Salt," 
he added, turning to Bob. 

" And now, I suppose, you'll go all the other way, Mr. 
Glegg," said Mrs. G., " and want to shut me out o' mj own 
nephey's business. I never said I wouldn't put money into it 
— I don't say as it shall be twenty pounds, though you're so 
ready to say it for me — ^but he'll see some day as his aunt's in 
the right not to risk the money she's saved for him till it's 
proved as it won^ be lost." 



282 THB HILL ON THX FLOBB. 

^^ Ay, that's a pleasant sort o' risk, that is,'' said Mr. Olegg, 
in^screetlj winlune at Tom, who couldn't avoid smiling. 
But Bob stemmed uie injured lady's outburst. 

"Ay, mum," he said, admiringly, "you know what's what 
— ^you do. An' it's nothing but £ur. You see how the first 
bit of a job answers, an' then you'll come down handsome. 
Lors, it's a fine thing to hey good kin. I got my bit of a nest- 
egg, as the master calls it, all by my own sharpness — ten suy- 
reigns it was — ^wi' dousing the fire at Torry's mill, an' it's growed 



lettin' 'em hev such good bargains. There's this bun^e, 
now" (thumping it lustily), " any other chap 'ud make a pretty 
penny out on it. But me I . . . . lors, I shall sell 'em for 
pretty near what I paid for 'em." 

" Have you got a bit of good net now?" said Mrs. Glegg, 
in a patronising tone, moving from the tea-table, and folding 
her napkin. 

" Eh, mum, not what you'd think it worth your while to 
look at. I'd scorn to show it you. It 'ud be an insult to 
you." 

" But let me see," said Mrs. Glegg, still patronimng. " K 
they're damaged goods, they're like enough to be a bit the 
better quality." 

" No, mum. I know my place," said Bob, lifting up his 
pack and shouldering it. " I'm not going t' expose the low- 
ness o' my trade to a lady like you. Packs is come down i' 
the world : it 'ud cut you to th' heart to see the dijQTerence. 
I'm at your sarvice, sir, when you've a mind to ffo an' see 
Salt." 

" All in good time," said Mr. Glegg, really unwilling to cut 
short the dialogue, " Are you wanted at the whs^ Tom?" 

" No, sir ; I left Stowe in my place." 

" Come, put down your pack, and let me see," said Mrs. 
Glegg, drawing a chair to the window, and seating herself 
with much dignity. 

" Don't you ask it, mum," said Bob, entreatmgly. 

" Make no more words," said Mrs. Glegg, severely, " but 
do as I tell you." 

" Eh, mum, I'm loth— that I am," said Bob, slowly deposit- 
ing his pack on the step, and beginning to untie it with 
unwilling fingers. " But what you order shall be done " 
(much fumbling in pauses between the sentences). " It's not 

as you'll buy a sinffle thing on me I'd be sorry for you 

to do it , . , . for think o' them poor women up i' the villages 



THB MILL ON THB FLOSS. 283 

there, as niver stir a hundred yards from home .... it ud be 
a pity for anybody to buy up their bargains. Lors, it's as - 
good as a junketing to 'em when they see me wi' my pack 
.... an' I shall niver pick up such bargains for 'em again: 
Least ways, I've no time now, for I'm off to Laceham. See 
here, now," Bob went on, becoming rapid again, and holding 
up a scarlet woollen kerchief with an embroidered wreath in 
the comer ; " here's a thing to make a lass's mouth water, an' 
on'y two shillin' — an' why ? Why, 'cause there's a bit of a 
moth-hole i' this plain end. Lors, I think the moths an' the 
mildew was sent by Providence o' purpose to cheapen the 
goods a bit for the good-lookin' women as han't got much 
money. If it hadn't been for the moths, now, every hanki- 
cher on 'em 'ud ha' gone to the rich handsome ladies, like you, 
mum, at five shillin' a-piece — ^not a farthin' less ; but what 
does the moth do ? Why, it nibbles off three shillin' o' the 
price i' no time, an' then a packman like me can carry't to the 
poor lasses as live under the. dark thack, to make a bit of a 
blaze for 'em. Lors, it's as good as a fire, to look at such a 
hankicher I " 

Bob held it at a distance for admiration, but Mrs. Glegg 
said sharply — 

"Yes, but nobody wants a fire this time o' year. Put 
these colored things by — ^let me look at your nets, if you've 
got 'em." 

" Eh, mum, I told you how it 'ud be," said Bob, flinging 
aside the colored things with an air of desperation. "I 
knowed it 'ud turn again' you to look at such paltry articles 
as I carry. Here's a piece o' figured muslin now — ^what's the 
use o' your lookin' at it ? You might as well look at poor 
folks's victual, mum — it 'ud on'y take away your appetite. 
There's a yard i' the middle on't as the pattern's all missed — 
lors, why it's a muslin as the Princess Victoree might ha» 
wore — ^but," added Bob, flinging it behind him on to the turf, 
as if to save Mrs. Glegg's eyes, "it'll be bought up by th' 
huckster's wife at Fibb's End — ^that's where i^'ll go — ^ten shil- 
lin' for the whole lot — ten yards, countin' the damaged 'un — 
five-an'-twenty shillin' 'ud ha' been the price — ^not a penny 
less. But I'll say no more, mum ; it's nothing to you — a piece 
o' muslin like that ; you can afford to pay three times the 
money for a thing as isn't half so good. It's nets you talked 
on ; well, I've got a piece as 'ull serve you to make fun on . , ." 

"Bring me that muslin," said Mrs. Glegg: "it's a buff— 
Pm partial to buff." 

" teh, but a damaged thing," said Bob, in a tone of depre- 
cating disgust. " You'd do nothing with it^ xasKCEkr-'^wii.^ 



284 THB MILL ON THB VLOflS. 

give it to the cook, I know 70a would — an' it 'ad be a ptty— 
she'd look too much like a lady in it — it's unbecoming tor 
servants." 

'^ Fetch it and let me see you measure it," said Mrs. Olegg, 
authoritatively. 

Bob obeyed with ostentatious reluctance. 

^^ See what there is over measure I" he said, holding forth the 
extra half-yard, while Mrs. Glegg was busy examining the 
damaged yard, and throwing her head back to see how fai 
the fault would be lost on a mstant view. 

" I'U give you six shilling for it," she said, throwing it down 
with the air of a person who mentions an ultimatum. 

" Didn't I tell you now, mum, as it 'ud hurt your feelnigs 
to look at my pack ? That damaged bit's turned your sto- 
mach now — I see it has," said Bob, wrappiag the muslin up 
with the utmost quickness, and apparently about to fasten up 
his pack. '' You're used to seein' a different sort o' article 
carried by packmen, when you lived at the Stone House. 
Packs is come down i' the world ; I told you that : fny goods 
are for common folks. Mrs. Pepper 'ull give me ten imilHn' 
for that muslin, an' be sorry as I didn't ask her more. Such 
articles answer i' the wearin' — they keep their color till the 
threads melt away i' the wash-tub, an' that wont be while 
JT'm a young un." 

" Well, seven shilling," said Mrs. Glegg. 

" Put it out o ' your mind, mum, now do," said Bob. ''Here's 
a bit o' net, then, for you to look at before I tie up my pack : 




hadn't been yallow. Lors, it's took me a deal o' study to 
know the vally o' such articles ; when I begun to carry a pack, 
I was as ignii-ant as a pig — ^net or calico was all the same to 
me. I thought them things the most vally as was the thick- 
est. I was took in dreadful — ^for I'm a straitforrard chap- 
up to no tricks, mum. I can on'y say my nose is my own, for 
il I went beyond, I should lose myself pretty quick. An' I 
gev five-an'-eightpence for that piece o' net — 1£ I was to tell 
y' anything else I should be tellin' you fibs : an' five-an'-eigh^ 
pence I shall ask for it — ^not a penny more — ^for it's a woman's 
article, an' I like to 'commodate the women. Five-an'-eight- 
pence for six yards — as cheap as if it was only the dirt on it 
as was paid for." 

" I don't mind having three yards of it," said Mrs. Glegg. 

" Why, there's but six altogether," said Bob. *' No, mum, 
it isn't worth your whUe ; you can go to the shop to-morrow 



THB MILL ON THB FLOSS. 285 

an* get the same pattern ready whitened. It's on>y three 
times the money — what's that to a lady like you ?" He gave 
an emphatic tie to his bundle. 

" Come, lay me out that musliD,** said Mrs. Glegg. " Here's 
eight shilling for it." 

" You will be jokin', mum," said Bob, looking up with a 
laughing face ; " I see'd you was a pleasant lady when I fast 
come to the winder," 

" Well, put it me out," said Mrs. Glegg, peremptorily. 

" But if I let you have it for ten sMmn', mum, you'll be 
so good as not tell nobody. I should be a laaghin'-stock — ^the 
trade 'ud hoot me, if they knowed it. I'm obliged to make 
believe as I ask more nor I do for my goods, else they'd ftid 
out I was a flat. I'm glad you don't insist upo' buyin' the 
net, for then I should ha' lost my two best bargains for Mrs. 
Pepper o' Fibb's End — an' she's a rare customer." 

^^ Let me look at the net a^ain," said Mrs. Glegg, yearning 
after the cheap spots and spngs, now they were vanishing. 

" Well, I can't deny youj mum,'» said Bob, handing it out. 
" Eh I see what a pattern now I Real Laceham goods. Now, 
this is the sort o' article I'm lecommendin' Mr. Tom to send 
out. Lors, it's a fine thing for anybody as has got a bit o' 
money — ^these Laceham goods 'ud make it breed like maggits. 
If I was a lady wi' a bit o' money I — ^why, I know one as put 
thirty pound into them goods — a lady wi' a cork leg ; but as 
sharp — ^you wouldn't catch her runnin' her head into a sack : 
she^a see her way clear out o' anything aibre she'd be in a 
hurry to start. Well, she let out thirty pound to a young 
man in the draperiug line, and he laid it out i' Laceham goods, 
an' a shupercargo o' my acquinetance (not Salt) took 'em out, 
an' she got her eight per zent fast go off— an' now you can't 
hold her but she must be sendin' out carguies wi' every ship, 
till she's gettin' as rich as a Jew. Bu(4s her name is — she 
doesn't live i' this town. Now then, mum, if you'U please to 
give me the net. . . ." 

" Here's fifteen shilling, then, for the two," said Mrs, Glegg. 
** But it's a shameful price." 

" Nay, mum, you'll niver say that when you're upo' your 
knees i' church i' five years' time. I'm makm' you a present 
o' th' articles — ^I am, indeed. That eightpence shaves off my 
profit as clean as a razor. Now then, sir," continued Bob, 
shouldering his pack, ^^ if you please, I'U be glad to go and 
see about makin' Mr. Tom's fortin'. Eh, I wish rd got 
another twenty pound to lay out for mysen : I shouldn't stay 
to say my Catecmism afore i know'd what to do wi't." 

^ Stop a bit, Mr.^ Glegg," said the lady^ ^ \k.«t \snisScA3D^ 



28(^ THB MILL ON THB FLOfSB. 

took his hat, " you never toiU give me the chance o» speaiknig. 
You'U go away now, and finish everything about this business, 
and come bacK and tell me it's too late for me to speak. As 
if I wasn't my nephey's own aunt, and th' head o' the family 
on his mother's side ! and laid by guineas, all full weight, for 
him — ^as he'll know who to respect when I'm laid in my 
coflin." 

" Well, Mrs. G., say what you mean," s^d Mr. G., hastily. 

" Well, then, I desire as nothing may be done without my 
knowing. I don't say as I shan't venture twenty pounds, if 
you m&e out as everything's right and safe. And if I do, 
Tom," concluded Mrs. Glegg, turning impressively to her 
nephew, " I hope you'll allays bear it in mind and be grateM 
for such an aunt. I mean you to pay me interest, you know— 
I don't approve o' giving ; we niver looked for that in my 
family." 

" Thank you, aunt," said Tom, rather proudly. " I prefer 
having the money only lent to me." 

" 'V^ry well : that's the Dodson sperrit," said Mrs. Gl^g, 
rising to get her knitting with the sense that any further 
remark after this would be bathos. 

Salt — ^that eminently " briny chap" — ^having been discovered 
in a doud of tobacco smoke at the Anchor Tavern, Mr. Glegg 
commenced inquiries which turned out satisfactorily enough 
to warrant the advance of the "nest-egg," to which aunt 
Glegg contributed twenty pounds ; and in this^modest begin- 
ning you see the ground of a fact which might otherwise 
surprise you, namely, Tom's accumulation of a fund, unknown 
to his father, that promised in no very long time to meet the 
more tardy process of saving, and quite cover the deficit. 
When once his attention had been turned to this source of 
gain, Tom determined to make the most of it, and lost no 
opportunity of obtaining information and extending his small 
enterprises. In not telling his father, he was influenced by 
that strange mixture of opposite feelings which often gives 
equal truth to those who blame an action and those who 
admire it: partly, it was that disinclination to confidence 
which is seen between near kindred — that family repulsion 
which spoils the most sacred relations of our lives ; partly, it 
was the desire to surprise his father with a great joy. He 
did not see that it would have been better to soothe the 
interval with a new hope, and prevent the delirium of a too 
sudden elation. 

At the time of Maggie's first meeting with Philip, Tom had 
already nearly a hundred and fifty pounds of his own capital, 
and while they were walking by the evening light in the Bed 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 287 

Deeps, he, by the same evening light, was riding into Laceham, 
proud of being on his first journey on behalf of Guest and 
Co., and revolving in his mind all the chances that by the end 
of another year he should have doubled his gains, lifted off 
the obloquy of debt from his father's name, and perhaps — for 
he shotdd be twenty-one — ^have got a new start for himself, 
on a higher platform of employment. Did he not deserve it? 
He was quite sure that he did. 



CHAPTER m. 

THE WAVERING BALANCE. 



I SAID that Maggie went home that evening irom the Red 
Deeps with a mental conflict already begun. Tou have seen 
clearly enough, in her interview with Philip, what that conflict 
was. Here suddenly was an opening in the rocky wall which 
shut in the narrow valley of humiliation, where all her pros- 
pect was the remote unfathomed sky; and some of the 
memory-haunting earthly delights were no longer jout of her 
reach. She might have books, converse, affection— she might 
hear tidings of the world from which her mind had not yet 
lost its sense of exile ; and it would be a kindness to Philip 
too, who was pitiable — clearly not happy ; and perhaps here 
was an opportunity indicated for makmg her mind more 
worthy of its highest service — perhaps the noblest, completest 
devoutness could hardly exist without some width of know- 
ledge: must she always live in this resigned imprisonment ? 
It was so blameless, so good a thing that there should be 
friendship between her and Philip ; the motives that forbade 
it were so unreasonable — so unchristian I But the severe 
monotonous warning came again and again — ^that she was 
losing the simplicky and clearness of her life by admitting a 
ground of concealment, and that, by forsaking the sin^)le rate 
of renunciatjon^she was throwing herself under the seductive 
guidance of illimitable wants. She thought she bad won 
strengtfite abey the war»iiig bef^e she showed herself the 
next week to turn her steps in the evening to the Red Deeps. 
But while she was resolved to say an. affectionate farewell to 
Philip, how she looked forward to that evening walk in the 
still, fleckered shade of the hollows, away from all that was 
harsh and unlovely; to the affectionate admiring looks that 
would meet her ; to the sense of comradeship that childish 
memories would give to wiser, older talk \ to tii& <^x\:!S3i&^ 



288 THB MUX ON THB FL0e8« 

that Philip would care to hear everything she said, whidi no 
one else cared for I It was a half-hour that it would be very 
hard to torn her back upon, with the sense that there would 
be no other like it. Yet she said what she meant to say ; she 
looked firm as well as sad. 

^^ Philip, I have made up my mind — ^it is right that we 
should give each other up, in everything but memory. I 
could not see you without concealment — stay, I know what 
you are going to say — ^it b other people's wrong feelings that 
make concealment necessary ; but concealment is bad, however 
it may be caused. I feel that it would be bad for me, for us 
both. And then, if our secret were discovered, there would 
be nothing but misery—dreadful anger ; and liien we must 
part after all, and it would be harder, when we were used to 
seeing each other." 

Philip's face had flushed, and there was a momentary eage^ 
ness of expression, as if he had been about to resist this deci- 
sion with all his might. But he controlled himself and said 
with assumed calmness, ^' Well, Maggie, if we must part, let 
us try and forget it for one half- hour : let us talk together a 
little while — for the last time." 

He took her hand, and Maggie felt no reason to withdraw 
it : his quietness made her all the more sure she had given him 
great pain, and she wanted to show him how unwillingly she 
had given it. They walked together hand in hand in silence. 

" Let us sit down in the hollow," said Philip, " where we 
stood the last time. See how the dog-roses have strewed the 
ground, and spread their opal petals over it I" 

They .sat down at the roots of the slanting ash. 
^ " I've begun my picture of you among the Scotch firs, Mag- 
gie," said Philip, '' so you must let me study your face a little, 
while you stay — since I am not to see it again. Please, turn 
your head this way." 

This was said in an entreating voice, and it would have been 
very hard of Maggie to refuse. The fuU lustrous fiice, with 
the bright black coronet, looked down, like that of a divinity 
well pleased to be worshipped, on the pale-hued, small-featured 
face that was turned up to it. 

" I shall be sitting for my second portrjut, then," she said, 
smiling. " Will it be larger than the other ? " 

" Oh yes, much larger. It is an oil-painting. Tou will look 
like a tall Hamadryad, dark and strong and noble, just issued 
from one of the fir-trees, when the stems are casting their 
afternoon shadows on the grass." 

" You seem to think more of painting than of anything now, 



THE MILL ON TEE FLOSS. 269 

" Perhaps I do," said Philip, rather sadly ; " but I think of 
too many things — sow all sorts of seeds, and get no great 
harvest from any one of them. I'm cursed with susceptibility 
in every direction, and effective faculty in none. I care for 
painting and music; I care for classic literature, and mediaeval 
literature, and modem literature : I flutter all ways, and fly 



m none." 



But surely that is a happiness to have so many tastes — ^to 
enjoy so many beautiful things — ^when they are within your 
reach," said Maggie, musingly. " It always seemed to me a > 
sort of clever stupidity only to have one sort of talent — almost l 
like a carrier-pigeon." 

^' It might be a happiness to have manj tastes if I were like 
other men," said Philip, bitterly. " I might get some power 
and distinction by mere mediocrity, as they do ; at Ifeast I 
should get those middling satisfactions which make men con- 
tented to do without great ones. I might think society at St. 
Ogg's agreeable then. But nothing could make life worth 
the purchase-money of pain to me, but some faculty that would 
lift me above the dead level of provincial existence. Yes — 
there is one thing : a passion answers as well as a Acuity." 

Maggie did not hear the last words: she was struggling 
against the consciousness that Philip's words had set her own 
discontent vibrating again as it used to do. 

** I understand what you mean," she said, " though I know 
so much less than you do. I used to think I could never bear 
life if it kept on being the same every day ; and I must always 
be doing things of no consequence, and never know anjrthing . 
greater. But, dear Philip, 1 think we are only like children, p 
tiiat some one who is wiser is taking care o£ Is it not right 
to resign ourselves entirely, whatever may be denied us ? I 
have found great peace in that for the last two or three years 
— even joy ia subduing my own will." 

" Yes, Maggie," said Philip, vehemently ; " and you are 
shutting yourself up in a narrow self-delusive &naticisin, which 
is only a way of escaping pain by starving into dulness all the 
highest powers of your nature. Joy and peace are not resig- 
nation ; resignation is the willing endurance of a pain that is 
not allayed — ^that you don't expect to be allayed. Stupefac- 
tion is not resignation : and it is stupe&ction to remain in 
ignorance — ^to shut up all the avenues by which the life of 
your fellow-men might become known to you. I am not re- 
signed: I am not sure that life is long enough to learn that 
lesson. You are not resigned : you are only trying to stupefy 
yourself.'* 

Maggie's lips trembled; she felt thet© ^«& ^xaa \yQSa.\s^ 






290 THE MILL OS THX FL068. 

what Philip said, and yet there was a deeper conscioTisness 
that for any immediate application it had to her conduct, it 
was' no better than iklsity. Her double impression corre- 
dpouded to the double impulse of the speaker. Philip seri- 
ously believed what he said, but he said it with vehemence 
because it made an argument against the resolution that 
opposed his wishes. But Maggie's fiice, made more child-like 
by the gathering tears, touched him with a" tenderer, less ego- 
istic feeling. He took her hand and said gently — 

^' Don't let us think of such things in this i^ort hall^hour, 
Maggie. Let us only care about being together. . . . "Wt 
shiui be friends in spite of separation. . . . We shall always 
think of each other. I shall be glad to live as long as you sure 
alive, because I shall think there may always come a time 
when I can — ^when you will let me help you in some way.** 

«* What a dear, good brother you would have been, Philip," 
aaid Maggie, smilmg through the haze of tears. " I thmk 
vo\i would have made as much fuss about me, and been as 
pli*asiHl for me to love you, as would have satisfied even me. 
You would have loved me well enough to bear with me, and 
forgive me everything. That was what I always longed that 
Tom should do. I was never satisfied with a little of any- 
thing. That is why it is better for me to do without earthly 
happiness altogether. ... I never felt that I had enough music 
— ^1 wanted more instruments playing together — ^I wanted 
voices to be fuller and deeper. Do you ever sing now, 
Pliilip?" she added abruptly, as if she had forgotten what 
went before. 

" Yes," he said, " every day, almost. But my voice is only 
middling — ^like everything else in me." 

*' Oh, sing me something — just one song. I may listen to 
that, before I go — ^something you used to sing at Lorton on 
a Saturday afternoon, when we had the drawing-room all to 
ourselves, and I put my apron over my head to listen." 

"/know," said Philip, and Maggie buried her fece in her 
hands, while he sang, sotto voce, " Love in her eyes sits play- 
ing ;" and then said, " That's it, isn't it ?" 

** Oh no, I won't stay," said Maggie, starting up. " It will 
only haunt me. Let us walk, PhiBp. I must go nome." 

She moved away, so that he was obliged to rise and follow 

her. 

*' Maggie," he said, in a tone of remonstrance, " don't per- 
ils in this wilful, senseless privation. It makes me wretched 
10 006 you benumbing and cramping your nature in this way. 
You were so full of life when you were a child : I thought 
^ '\ brilliant woman— all wit and bright imagina- 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 291 

tion. And it flashes out in your face still, until you draw 
that veil of dull quiescence over it." 

"Why do you speak so bitterly to me, Philip?" said 
Maggie. 

"Because I foresee it will not end well: you can never 
carry on this self-torture." 

"1 shall have strength given me," said Maggie, tremu- 
lously. 

" No, you will not, Maggie : no one has strength given to 
do what is unnatural. It is mere cowardice to seek safety in 
negations. No character becomes strong in that way. You 
will be thrown into the world some day, and then every 
rational satisfaction of your nature that you deny now, will 
assault you like a savage appetite." 

Maggie started and paused, looking at Philip with alarm 
in her lace. 

" Philip, how dare you shake me in this way ? You are a 
tempter." ^ 

" No, I am not ; but love gives insight, Maggie, and insight 
often gives foreboding. Listen to me — let me supply you 
with books ; do let me see you sometimes — ^be your brother 
and teacher, as you said at Lorton, It is less wrong that you 
should see me than that you should be committing this long 
suicide." 

Maggie felt unable to speak. She shook her head and 
walked on in silence, till they came to the ^nd of the Scotch 
firs, and she put out her hand in sign of parting. 

" Do you banish me from this place for ever, then, Maggie ? 
Surely I may come and walk in it sometimes ? If I meet you 
by chance, there is no concealment in that ? " 

It is the moment when our resolution seems about to 
become irrevocable — ^when the fetal iron gates are about to 
close upon us — that tests our strength. Then, after hours of 
clear reasoning and firm conviction, we snatch at any sophistry 
that will nuUi^ our long struggles, and bring us the defeat 
that we lov« better than victory. 

Maggie felt her heart leap at this subterfuge of Philip's, 
and there passed over her face that almost imperceptible 
shock which accompanies any relief. He saw it, and they 
parted in silence. 

Philip's sense of the situation was too complete for him not 
to be visited with glancing fears lest he had been intervening 
too presumptuously in the action of Maggie's conscience — 
perhaps for a selfish end. But no ! — he persuaded himself his 
end was not selfish. He had little hope that Mag^e would 
ever return the strong feeling he had for bex \ ^sAV(>Ta»a^\^ 



292 THS MILL ON THS FLOSS. 

better for Maggie's fature life, when these petty family 
obstacles to her freedom had disappeared, that the present 
should not be entirely sacrificed, and that she should have 
some opportunity of culture — some interchange with a mind 
above the vulgar level of those she was now condemned to 
live with. If we only look far enough ofT for the consequences 
of our actions, we can always find some point in the com- 
bination of results, by which those actions can be justified: 
by adopting the point of view of a Providence who arranges 
results, or of a philosopher who traces thcon, we shall fibttd it 
possible to obtain perfect complacency in choosing to do what 
is most agreeable to us in the present moment. And it was 
in this way, that Philip justified his subtle efforts to overcome 
Maggie's true prompting against a concealment that would 
introduce doubleness into her own mind, and might cause new 
misery to those who had the primary natural claim on her. 
But there was a surplus of passion in him that made him half 
independent of justifying motives. His longing to see Maggie, 
and make an element in her life, had in it some of that 
savage impulse to snatch an offered joy, which springs from 
a life in which the mental and bodily constitution have made 
pain predominate. He had not his full share in the common 

food of men : he could not even pass muster with the insignir 
cant, but must be singled out for pity, and excepted from 
what was a matter of course with others. Even to Maggie 
he was an exception : it was clear that the thought of his bemg 
her lover had never entered her mind. 

Do not think too hardly of Philip. Ugly and deformed 
people have great need of unusual virtues, because they are 
likely to be extremely uncomfortable without them : but tbe 
theory that unusual virtues spring by a direct consequence 
out of personal disadvantages, as animals get thicker wool in 
severe climates, is perhaps a little overstrained. The tempta- 
tions of beauty are much dwelt upon, but I fancy they only 
bear the same relation to those ot ugliness, as the temptation 
to excess at a feast, where the delights are varied for eye and 
ear as well as palate, bears to the temptations that assail the 
desperation of hunger. Does not the Hunger Tower stand 
as the type of the utmost trial to what is human in us ? 

Philip had never been soothed by that mother's love which 
flows out to us in the greater abundance beoause our need is 
greater, which clings to us the more tenderly because we are 
the less likely to be winners in the game of life ; and the 
sense of his father's affection and indulgence towards him was 
marred by the keener perception of his fether's faults. Kept 
aloof from all practical life as Philip had been^ and by nature 



THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 298 

half-feminine in sensitiveness, he had some of the woman's 
intolerant repulsion towards worldliness and the deliberate 
pursuit of sensual enjoyment ; and this one strong natural tie 
in his life — his relation as a son — ^was like an aching limb to 
him. Perhaps there is inevitably something morbid in a 
human being who is in any way unfavorably excepted from 
ordinary conditions, until the good force has had time to 
triumph; and it has rarely had time for that at two-and 
twenty. That force was present in PhiUp in much strength, 
but the sun himself looks feeble through the morning mists. 



CHAPTER IV. 

A270THEB LOVE SCENE.* 



Eablt in the following April, nearly a year after that dubi- 
ous parting you have just witnessed, you may, if you like, 
again see Maggie entering the Red Deeps through the group 
of Scotch firs. But it is early afternoon and not evening, and 
the edge of sharpness in the spring air makes her draw her 
large shawl close about her and trip along rather quickly ; 
though she looks round, as usual, that she may take in the 
sight of her beloved trees. There is a more eager inquiring 
look in her eyes than there was last June, and a smile is hover- 
ing about her lips, as if some playftil speech were awaiting the 
right hearer. The hearer was not long in appearing. 

" Take back your Corinne^'^^ said Maggie, drawing a book 
from under her shawl. " You were right in telling me she 
would do me no good ; but you were wrong in thinking I 
should wish to be like her." 

" Wouldn't you really like to be a tenth Muse, then, Mag- 
^e?" said Philip, looking up in her face as we look at a first 
parting in the clouds that promises us a bright heaven once 
more. 

" Not at all," said Maggie, laughing. " The Muses were 
oncomfortable goddesses, I think — obliged always to carry 
rolls and musical instruments about with them. If I carried 
a harp in this climate, you know, I must have a green baize 
cover for it — and I should be sure to leave it behind me by 
mistake." 

" You agree with me in not liking Corinne, then ?" 

« I didn't finish the book," said Maggie. "As soon as I 
came to the blond-haired young lady reading in the park, I 
shut it up, and determined to read no fuitl\et . \ isst«»w« ^^i^ 



204 THE MILL ON THE FL08S. 

that ligbt-complexioned ^1 would win away all the love from 
Corinne and make her nuserable. I'm determmed to read no 
more books where the blond-haired women carry away all the 
happiness. I should begin to have a prejudice agiunst them. 
If you could give me some story, now, where the dark woman 
triumphs, it would restore the balance. I want to avenge 
Rebecca and Flora Mac-Ivor, and Minna and all the rest of the 
dark unhappy ones. Since you are my tutor, you ought to 
preserve my mind from prejudices — ^you are always arguing 
against prejudices." 

" Weil, perhaps you will avenge the dark women in your 
own person, and carry away all thie love from' your cousia 
Lucy. She is sure to have some handsome young man of St. 
Ogg's at her feet now : and you have only to shine upon him 
— ^your fair little cousin will be quite quenched in your 
beams.'* 

" Philip, that is not pretty of you, to apply my nonsense to 
anything real," said Maggie, looking hurt. "As if I, with my 
old gowns and want of all accomplishments, could be a rival 
of dear little Lucy, who knows and does all sorts of charming 
things, and is ten times prettier than I am— even if I were 
odious and base enough to wish to be her rival. Besides, I 
never go to aunt Deane's when any one is there : it is only 
because dear Lucy is good, and loves me, that she comes to 
see me, and will have me to go to see her sometimes." 

"Maggie," said Philip, with surprise, "it is not like you to 
take playftdness literally. You must have been in St. Ogg's 
this morning, and brought away a slight infection of dul- 
ness." 

"Well," said Maggie, smiling, "if you meant that for a 
joke, it was a poor one ; but I thought it was a very good 
reproof. I thought you wanted to remind me that I am vain, 
and wish every one to admire me most. But it isn't for that, 
that I'm jealous for the dark women — ^not because I'm dark 
myself. It's because I always care the most about the unhappy 
people : if the blonde girl were forsaken, I should like Aer best. 
I always take the side of the rejected lover in the stories." 

" Then you would never have the heart to reject one your- 
self—should you, Maggie ?" said Philip, flushing a little. 

" I don't know," said Maggie hesitatingly. Then with a 
bright smile — " I think perhaps I could if he were very con- 
ceited ; and yet, if he got extremely humiliated afterwards, I 
should relent." 

"I've often wondered, Maggie," Philip said, with some 
effort, " whether you wouldn't really be more likely to love a 
man that other women were not likely to love." 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 295 

" That would depend on what they didn't like him for,*' 
'said Maggie laughing. "He might be very disagreeable. 
He might look at me through an eye-glass stuck in his eye, 
making a hideous face, as young Torry does. I should thmk 
other women are not fond of that ; but I never felt any pity 
for young Torry. I've never any pity for conceited people, 
because I think they 'carry their comfort about with them." 

" But suppose, Maggie — suppose it was a man who was not 
conceited — who felt he had nothing to be conceited about — 
who had been marked from childhood for a peculiar kind of 
suffering — and to whom you were the daynstar of his life — 
who loved you, worshipped you, so entirely that he felt it 
happiness enough for him if you would let him see you at rare 
moments . . . ." 

Philip paused with a pang of dread lest his confession should 
cut short this very happiness — a pang of the same dread that 
had kept his love mute through long months. A rush of self- 
consciousness told him that he was besotted to have said all 
this. Maggie's manner this morning had been as uncon- 
strained and indifferent as ever. 

But she was not looking indifferent now. Struck with the 
imusual emotion in PhiHp's tone, she had turned quickly to 
look at him, and as he went on speaking, a great change came 
over her &.ce — a flush and slight spasm of the features such 
as we see in people who hear some news that will require 
them to readjust their conceptions of the past. She was quite 
silent, and, walking on towards the trunk of a fallen tree, she 
sat down, as if she had no strength to spare for her muscles. 
She was trembling. 

" Maggie," said Philip, getting more and more alarmed in 
every fresh moment of silence, " I was a fool to say it — ^forget 
that I've said it. I shall be contented if things can be as they 
were." 

The distress with which he spoke, urged Maggie to say 
something. " I am so surprised, Philip — ^I had not thought 
of it." And the effort to say this brought the tears down too. 

" Has it made you hate me, Maggie ?" said Philip impetu- 
ously. " Do you think I'm a presumptuous fool ?" 

" Oh, Philip I" said Maggie, "how can you think I have such 
feelings ? — as if I were not grateful for any love. But . . . but 
I had never thpught of your being my lover. It seemed so far 
off— like a dream — only like one of the stories one imagines — 
that I should ever have a lover." 

" Then can you bear to think of me as your lover, Maggie ?" 
said Philip, seating himself by her and taking her hand, in the 
elation of a sudden hope. " Do you love m^^" 



206 THB MILL ON THE FLOSB. 

Maggie turned rather pale : this direct queetion seemed not 
easy to answer. Bat her eyes met Philip's, which were in thifl 
moment liquid and beautiful with beseeching love. She spoke 
with hesitation, yet with sweet, simple, girlish tenderness. 

^*I think I could hardly love any one better: there is 
nothing but what I love you for." She paused s little while, 
and then added, ^^ But it will be better for us not to say any 
more about it — ^won't it, dear Philip ? You know we couldnt 
even be friends, if our friendship were discovered. I have 
never felt that I was right in giving way about seeing your-^ 
though it has been so precious to me in some ways ; and now 
the fear comes upon me strongly again, that it will lead to 
evil" 

*^ But no evil has come, Maggie ; and if you had been 
guided by that fear before, you would only have lived through 
another dreary benumbing year, instead of reviving into your 
real self." 

Maggie shook her head. ^^ It has been very sweet, I know 
— all uie talking together, and the books, and the feeling ihsA 
I had the walk to look forward to, when I could tell you the 
thoughts that had come into my head whUe I was away from 
you. But it has made me restless : it has made me think a 
great deal aboitt the world ; and I have impatient thoughts 
again — ^I get weary of my home — ^and then it cuts me to the 
heart afterwards, that I should ever have felt weary of my 
father and mother. I think what you call being benumbed 
was better — ^better for me — ^for then my selfish desires were 
bennmbed" 

Philip had risen again and was walking backwards and 
forwards impatiently. 

" No, Maggie, you have wrong ideas of self-conquest, as 
I've often told you. What you call self-conquest — ^blinding 
and deafening yourself to all but one train of impressions — ^is 
only the culture of monomania in a nature like yours." 

He had spoken with some irritation, but now he sat down 
by her again, and took her hand. 

" Don't think of the past now, Maggie ; think only of our 
love. If you can really cUng to me with sJl your heart, every 
obstacle will be overcome in time : we need only wait. I can 
live on hope. Look at me, Maggie ; tell me again, it is pos- 
sible for you to love me. Don't look away from me to that 
cloven tree ; it is a bad omen." 

She turned her large dark glance upon him with a sad 
smile. 

" Come^ Maggie, say one kind word, or else you were better 
to me at Lorton. Ton asked me if I should like you t# kiss 



THB HILL GN THE FLOSS. 297 

me— don't you remember? — and you promised to kiss me 
when you met me again. You never kept the promise." 

The recollection of that childish time came as a sweet relief 
to Maggie. It made the present moment less strange to her. 
She kissed him almost as simply and quietly as she had done 
when she was twelve years old. Philip's eyes flashed with 
delight, but his next words were words of discontent. 

" X ou don't seem happy enough, Maggie : you are forcing 
yourself to say you love me, out of pity." 

" No, Philip," said Maggie, shaking her head, in her old 
childish way ; " I'm telling you the truth. It is all new and 
strange to me ; but I don't think I could love any one better 
than I love you. I should like always to live with you — ^to 
make you happy. I have always been happy when I have 
been with you.*^ There is only one thing 1 will not do for 
your sake: I will never do anything to wound my father. 
You must never ask that from me." 

" No, Maggie : I will ask nothing — ^I will bear everything — 
ril wait another year only for a kiss, if you will only give me 
the first place in your heart." 

"No," said Maggie, smiling, "I won't make you wait so 
long as that." But then, loolmig serious again, she added, as 
she rose from her seat — 

" But what would your own father say, Philip ? Oh, it is 
quite impossible we can ever be more than friends — ^brother 
and sister in secret, as we have been. Let^us give up thinking 
of everything else." 

"No, Maggie, I can't give you up — ^unless you are de- 
ceiving me — ^unless you really only care for me as if I were 
your brother. Tell me the truth." 

" Indeed I do, Philip. What happiness have I ever had 
so great as being with you ? — since I was a little girl — ^the 
days Tom was good to me. And your mind is a sort of world 
to me : you can tell me all I want to know. I think I should 
never be tired of being with you." 

They were walking hand in hand, looking at each other ; 
Maggie, indeed, was hurrying along, for she felt it time to be 
gone. But the sense that their parting was near, made her 
more anxious lest she should have imintentionally left some 
painful impression on Philip's mind. It was one of those 
dangerous moments when speech is at once sincere and 
deceptive — when feeling, rising high above its average depth, 
leaves flood-marks which are never reached again. 

They stopped to part among the Scotch firs. 

"Tlien my life will be filled with hope, Magde — ^and I 
shall be happier than other men, in spite oC tS^ ^^ ^ 

N2 



r 



298 THB MILL ON THB FL06S. 

belong to each other — for always — whether we are apart or 
together.'* 

" Yes, Philip : I should like never to part : I should like to 
make your life very happy." 

"lam waiting for something else — ^I wonder whether it 
will come." 

Maggie smiled, with glistening tears, and then stooped her 
tall head to kiss the pale face that was full of pleading, timid 
love — ^like a woman's. 

She had a moment of real happiness then — ^a moment of 
beUef that, if there were sacrifice in this love, it was all the 
richer and more satiafying. 

She turned away and humed home, feeling that in the 
hour since she had trodden this road before, a new era had 
begun for her. The tissue of vague dreams must now get 
narrower and narrower, and all the threads of thought and 
emotion be gradually absorbed in the woof of her actual 
daily life. 



CHAPTER V. 

THE CLOVEN TBEB. 

Secrets are rarely betrayed or discovered according to 
any programme our fear has sketched out. Fear is almost 
always haunted by terrible dramatic scenes, which recur in 
spite of the best-argued probabilities against thera ; and dur- 
ing a year that Maggie had had the burthen of concealment 
on her mind, the possibility had continually presented itself 
under the form of a sudden meeting with her father or Tom 
when she was walking with Philip in the Red Deeps. She 
was aware that this was not one of the most likely events ; 
but it was the scene that most completely symbolised her 
inward dread. Those slight indirect suggestions which are 
dependent on apparently trivial coincidences and incalculable 
states of mind, are the favorite machinery of Fact, but are 
not the stuff in which imagination is apt to work. 

Certainly one of the persons about whom Maggie's fears 
were farthest from troubHng themselves was her aunt Pullet, 
on whom, seeing that she did not live in St. Ogg's, and was 
neither sharp-eyed nor sharp-tempered, it would surely have 
been quite wlumsical of them to fix rather than on aunt 
Glegg. And yet the channel of fatality — the pathway of the 
Ji^btning — ^was no other than aunt Pullet. She did not live 



THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 299 

at St. Ogg's, but the road from Garum Firs lay by the Red 
Deeps, at the end opposite that by which Maggie entered. 

The day after Maggie's last meeting with Philip, being a 
Sunday on which Mr. PuUet was bound to appear in fimeral 
hat-band and scarf at St. Ogg's church, Mrs. Pullet made this 
the occasion of dining with sister Grlegg, and taking tea with 
poor sister TuUiver. Sunday was the one day in the week on 
which Tom was at home in the afternoon ; and to-day the 
brighter spirits he had been in of late had flowed over in 
imusually cheerftil open chat with his father, and in the invi- 
tation, "Come, Magsie, you come too!" when he strolled 
out with his mother in the garden to see the advancing 
cherry-blossoms. He had been better pleased with Maggie 
since she had been less odd and ascetic ; he was even getting 
rather proud of her : several persons had remarked in his 
hearing that his sister was a very fine girl. To-day there 
was a peculiar brightness in her face, due in reality to an 
under-current of excitement, which had as much doubt and 

Eain as pleasure in it; but it might pass for a sign of 
appiness. • 

" You look very well, my dear," said aunt PuUet, shaking 
her head sadly, as they sat round the tea-table. " I niver 
thought your girl 'ud be so good-looking, Bessy. But you 
must wear pink, my dear: that blue thing as your aunt 
Glegg gave you turns you into a crowflower. Jane never was 
tasty. Why don't you wear that gown o' mine ?" 

" It is so pretty and so smart, aunt. I think it's too showy 
for me — at least for my ot^er clothes, that I must wear 
with it." 

" To be sure, it 'ud be unbecoming if it wasn't well known 
you've got them belonging to you as can afford to give you 
such things when they've done with 'em themselves. It 
stands to reason I must give my own niece clothes now and 
then — such things as I buy every year, and never wear any- 
thing out. And as for Lucy, there's no giving to her, for 
she's got everything o' the choicest : sister Deane may well 
hold her head up, though she looks dreadful yallow, poor 
thing — ^I doubt this liver-complaint 'ull carry her off. That's 
what this new vicar, this Dr. Kenn, said in the ftmeral ser- 
mon to-day." 

" Ah, he's a wonderful preacher, by all account — ^isn't, he, 
Sophy ? " said Mrs. Tulliver. 

" Why, Lucy had got a collar on this blessed day,'> con- 
tinued Mrs. Pullett, vjdth her eyes fixed in a ruminating man- 
ner, " as I don't say I haven't got as good, but I must look 
out my best to match it." 



300 THE lOLL ON THB FLOSS. 

** Miss Lncy's called the bell o' St. Ogg's, they saj : that's a 
curious word," observed Mr. Pullet, on whom the mysteries 
of etymology sometimes fell with an oppress! v^e weight. 

"Foohl" said Mr. Tulliver, jealous for Maggie, "she's a 
small thing, not much of a figure. But fine feauiers make fine 
birds. I see nothing to admire so much in those diminitiye 
women ; they look silly by the side o' the men— out o' pro- 
portion. Wben I chose my wife, I chose her the right dze — 
neither too little nor too big." 

The poor wife, with her withered beauty, smiled compla- 
cently. 

"But the men aren't cUl. big," said imde Pullet, not with- 
out some self-reference ; " a yoxmg fellow may be good-looking 
and yet not be a six-foot, like Master Tom here." 

" Ah, it's poor talking about littleness and bigness, — ^any- 
body may think it's a mercy they're straight," said aunt 
Pidlet. " Tliere's that mis-made son o» Lawyer Wakem's — 
I saw him at church to-day. Dear, dear! to think o' the 
property he's like to. have ; and they say he's very queer and 
lonely — doesn't like mu^h company. I shouldn't wonder if he 
goes out of his mind ; for we never come along the road but 
he's a-scrambling out o' the trees and brambles at the Red 
Deeps." 

This wide statement, by which Mrs. PuUet represented the 
feet that she had twice seen Philip at the spot indicated, pro- 
duced an effect on Maggie which was all the stronger because 
Tom sate opposite her, and she was intensely anxious to look 
indifferent. At Philip's name she had blushed, and the blush 
deepened every instant from consciousness, until the mention 
of the Red Deeps made her feel as if the whole secret were 
betrayed, and she dared not even hold her tea-spoon lest she 
should show how she trembled. She sat with her hands 
clasped under the table, not daring to look round. Happily, 
her father was seated on the same side with herself beyond 
her uncle Pullet, and could not see her face without stooping 
forward. Her mother's voice brought the first relief — ^turning 
the conversation ; for Mrs. Tulliver was always alarmed when 
the name of Wakem was mentioned in her husband's presence. 
Gradually Maggie recovered composure enough to look up ; 
her eyes met Tom's, but he turned away his head immediately ; 
and she went to bed that night wondering if he had gathered 
any suspicion from her confusion. Perhaps not : perhaps he 
would think it was only her alarm at her aunt's mention of 
Wakem before her father: that was the interpretation her 
mother had put on it. To her father, Wakem was like a 
disfiguring disease, of which he was obliged to endure the 



THE MnX OK THE FLOSS. 801 

consdonsness, but was exasperated to have the existence 
recognised by others ; and no amount of sensitiveness in her 
about her father could be surprising, Maggie thought. 

But Tom was too keen-sighted to rest satisfied with such 
an interpretation : he had seen clearly enough that there was 
something distinct from anxiety about her father in Maggie's 
excessive confusion. In trying to recall all the details that 
could give shape to his suspicions, he remembered only lately 
hearing his mother scold Maggie for walking in the Red Deeps 
when the ground was wet, and" bringing home shoes clogged 
with red soil : still Tom, retaining all his old repulsion for 
Philip's deformity, shrank from attributing to his sister the 
probability of feeling more than a friendly interest in such an 
unfortunate exception to the common run of men. Tom's 
was a nature which had a sort of superstitious repugnance to 
everything exceptional. A love for a deformed man would be 
odious in any woman--in a sister intolerable. But if she had 
been carrying on any kind of intercourse whatever with Philip, 
a stop must be put to it at once : she was disobeying her 
Other's strongest feelings and her brother's express commands, 
besides compromising herself by secret meetings. He left 
home the next morning in that watchful state of mind which 
turns the most ordinary course of things into pregnant coinci- 
dences. 

That afternoon, about half-past three o'clock, Tom was 
standing on the wharf, talking with Bob Jakin about the 
probability of the good ship Adelaide coming in, in a day or 
two, with results highly important to both of them. 

" Eh," said Bob, parenthetically, as he looked over the fields 
on the other side of the river, "there goes that crooked young 
Wakem. I know him or his shadder as far off as I can see 
'em ; I'm aUays lighting on him o' that side the river." 

A sudden thought seemed to have darted through Tom's 
mind. " I must go. Bob," he said, " I've something to attend 
to," hurrying off to the warehouse, where he left notice for 
some one to take his place — ^he was called away home on 
peremptory business. 

The swHkest pace and the shortest road took him to the 
gate, and he was pausing to open it deliberately, that he 
might walk into the house with an appearance of perfect 
composure, when Maggie came out at the front door in 
bonnet and shawl. His conjecture was fulfilled, and he waited 
for her at the gate. She started violently when she saw him. 

" Tom, how is it you are come home ? Is there anything 
the matter ?" Maggie spoke in a low tremulous voice. 

" I'm come to wsJk with you to the BedD^^^^ «a.^ TSiR»\. 



302 THB MILL OK THB FLOSS. 

Philip Wakem," sudTom, the central fold in his brow, whidi 
had become habitual with him, deepening as he spoke. 

Maggie stood helpless — ^pale and cold. By some means, 
then, Tom knew everything. At last she said, *^ Fm not 
going," and turned round. 

" Yes, you are ; but I want to speak to you first. Where 
is my father ?" 

** Out on horseback." 

" And my mother ?" 

"In the yard, I think, with the poultry.*' 

*' I can go in, then, without her seeing me ?" 

They walked in together, and Tom, entering the parlor, 
said to Maggie, " Come in here." 

She obeyed, and he closed the door behind her. 

" Now, Maggie, tell me this instant everything that has 
passed between you and Philip Wakem?" 

" Does my father know anything ?" said Maggie, still trem- 
bling. 

" No," said Tom, indignantly. " But he s/iall know, if yon 
attempt to use deceit towards me any further." 

" I don't wish to use deceit," said Maggie, flushing into 
resentment at hearing this word applied to her conduct. 

" Tell me the whole truth then." 

" Perhaps you know it." 

" Never mind whether I know it or not. Tell me exactly 
what has happened, or my father shall know everything." 

" I tell it for my father's sake, then." 

" Yes, it becomes you to profess affection for your &ther, 
when you have despised his strongest feelings." 

" You never do wrong, Tom," said Maggie, tauntingly. 

" Not if I know it," answered Tom, with proud sincerity. 
" But I have nothing to say to you, beyond this : tell me what 
has passed between you and Philip Wakem. When did you 
first meet him at the Red Deeps ?" 

" A year ago," said Maggie, quietly. Tom's severity gave 
her a certain fund of defiance, and kept her sense of" error 
in abeyance. " You need ask me no more questions. We 
have been friendly a year. We have met and walked together 
often. He has lent me books." 

" Is that all ?" said Tom, looking straight at her with his 
frown. 

Maggie paused a moment ; then, determined to make an 
and of Tom's right to accuse her of deceit, she said haughtily — 

" No, not quite all. On Saturday he told me that he loved 
me. I didn't think of it before then — ^I had only thought of 
him as an old friend." 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 303 

** And you encouraged him ?" said Tom, with an expression 
of disgust. 

" I told him that I loved him too." 

Tom was silent a few moments, looking on the ground and 
frowning, with his hands in his pockets. At last he looked 
up, and said, coldly — 

" Now, then, Maggie, there are but two courses for you 
to take : either you vow solemnly to me, with your hand on 
my father's Bible, that you will never have another meeting 
or speak another word in private with Philip Wakem, or you 
refuse, and I tell my father everything ; and this month, when 
by my exertions he might be made happy once more, you 
will cause him the blow of knowing that you are a disobedi- 
ent, deceitful daughter, who throws away her own respecta- 
bility by clandestine meetings with the son of a man that has 
helped to ruin her father. Choose I" Tom ended with cold 
decision, going up to the large Bible, drawing it forward, and 
opening it at the fly-leaf, where the writing was. 

It was a crushing alternative to Maggie. 

" Tom," she said, urged out of pride into pleading, " don't 
ask me that. I will promise you to give up all intercourse 
with Philip, if you will let me see him once, or even only 
write to him and explain everything — ^to give it up as long as 
it would ever cause any pain to my father. ... I feel some- 
thing for Philip too. He is not happy." 

" I don't wish to hear anything of your feelings ; I have 
said exactly what I mean: choose — ^and quickly, lest my 
mother should come in." 

"KI give you my word, that will be as strong a bond to 
me as if I laid my hand on the Bible. I don't require that to 
bind me." 

"Do what Z require," said Tom. " I can't trust you, Mag- 
gie. There is no consistency in you. Put your hand on this 
Bible, and say, 'I renounce all private speech and intercourse 
with Philip Wakem from this time forth.' Else you will 
bring shame on us all, and grief on my fiither ; and what is 
the uSe of my exerting myself and giving up everything else 
for the sake of paying my father's debts, if you are to bring 
madness and vexation on him, just when he might be easy 
and hold up his head once more ?" 

" Oh, Tom — will the debts be paid soon ?" said Mag^e, 
clasping her hands, with a sudden flash of joy across her 
wretchedness. 

" If things turn out as I expect," said Tom. " But," he 
added, his voice trembling with indignation, " while I have 
been contriving and working that my father txiai^ V^kK^^ ^3^\s^^ 



304 THS MILL OK THE VLOSB. 

peace of mind before he dies — ^working for the respectability 
of our family — you have done all you can to destroy both.** 

Maggie felt a deep movement of compunction : for the 
moment, her mind ceased to contend against what she felt to 
be cruel and unreasonable, and in her self-blame she justified 
her brother. 

" Tom," she said, in a low voice, " it was wrong of me — ^but 
I was so lonely — and I was sorry for Philip. And I think 
enmity and hatred are wicked.'* 

"Nonsense!" said Tom. "Your duty was dear enon^. 
Say no more ; but promise, in the words I told you." 

" I must speak to Philip once more.'* 

" You will go with me now and speak to him.** 

" I give you my word not to meet him or write to him 
again without your knowledge. That is the only thing I will 
say. I will put my hand on the Bible if you like.** 

" Say it, then." 

Maggie laid her hand on the page of manuscript and 
repeated the promise. Tom closed the book, and said, " Now, 
let us go." 

Not a word was spoken as they walked along. Maggie was 
suffering in anticipation of what Philip was about to sufifer, 
and dreading the galling words that would fall on him from 
Toin's lips ; but she felt it was in vain to attempt anything 
but submission. Tom had his terrible clutch on her con- 
science and her deepest dread : she writhed under the demon- 
strable truth of the character he had given to her conduct, 
and yet her whole soul rebelled against it as unfair from its 
incompleteness. He, meanwhile, felt the impetus of his indig- 
nation diverted towards Philip. He did not know how mudi 
of an old boyish repulsion and of mere personal pride and 
animosity was concerned in the bitter severity of the words 
by which he meant to do the duty of a son and a brother. 
Tom was not given to inquire subtly into his own motives, any 
more than into other matters of an intangible kind ; he was 
quite sure that his o^ motives as well as actions were good, 
else he would have nothing to do with them. 

Maggie's only hope was that something might, for the first 
time, have prevented Philip from coming. Then there would 
be delay — ^then she might get Tom's permission to write to 
him. Her heart beat vjdth double violence when they got 
under the Scotch firs. It was the last moment of suspense, 
she thought ; Philip always met her soon after she got beyond 
them. But they passed across the more open green space, 
and entered a narrow bushy path by the mound. Another 
turning, and they came so close upon him that both Tom and 



THB MILL GN THB FLOSS. 305 

Philip stopped suddenly 'within a yard of each other. There 
was a moment's silence, in which Philip darted a look of 
inquiry at Maggie's face. He saw an answer there, in the 
pale parted lips, and the terrified tension of the large eyes. 
Her imagination, always rushing extravagantly beyond an 
immediate impression, saw her tall strong brotiier grasping 
the feeble Phiup bodily, crushing him and trampling on him. 

^^ Do you call this acting the part of a man and a gentleman, 
sir ? " Tom said, in a voice of harsh scorn, as soon as Philip's 
eyes were turned on him again. 

" What do you mean ? " answered Philip, haughtily. 

^' Mean ? stand farther from me, lest I should lay hands 
on you, and PU tell you what I mean. I mean, taking advan- 
tage of a young girl^s foolishness and ignorance to get her to 
have secret meetings with you. I mean, daring to trifle with 
the respectability of a family that has a good and honest name 
to support." 

" I deny that," interrupted Pbi%> impetuously. " I could 
never trifle with any thing that affected your sister's happi- 
ness. She is dearer to me than she is to you ; I honor her 
more than you can ever honor her ; I would give up my life 
to her." 

" Don't talk high-flown nonsense to me, sir I Do you mean 
to pretend that you didn't know it would be injurious to her 
to meet you here week after week ? Do you pretend you 
had any nght to make professions of love to her, even if you 
had been a fit husband for her, when neither her father nor 
your fether would ever consent to a marriage between you ? 
And you — you to try and worm yourself into the aflections of 
a handsome girl who is not eighteen, and has been shut out 
firom the world by her father's misfortunes 1 That's your 
crooked notion of honor, is it ? I call it base treachery — I 
call it taking advantage of circumstances to win what's too 
good for you — what you'd never get by fair means." 

" It is manly of you to talk in this way to m^," said Philip, 
bitterly, his whole nrame shaken by violent emotions. " Giants 
have an immemorial right to stupidity and insolent abuse. 
Tou are incapable even of understanding what I feel for your 
sister. I feel so much for her that I could even desire to be 
at friendship with yow." 

" I should be very sorry to understand your feelings," said 
Tom, with scorching contempt. " What I wish is niat you 
should understand me — ^that I shall take care of my sister, and 
that if you dare to make the least attempt to come near her, 
or to write to her, or to keep the slightest hold on her mind, 
your ptmy, miserable body, that ought to Iva^^ y^ ^^toa 



306 THB MILL ON THB FL0S8. 

modesty into your mind, shall not protect yon* I'll tlmsh 
you — I'll hold you up to public scorn. Who wouldn't laugh 
at the idea off/our turning lover to a fine girl ?" 

" Tom, I wiu not bear it — ^1 will listen no longer," Maggie 
burst out in a convulsed voice. 

^' Stay, Maggie I" said Philip, making s strong effort to 
speak. Then, looking at Tom, " You have dragged your as- 
ter here, I suppose, that she may stand by while you threaten 
and insult me. These naturally seemed to you the right 
means to influence me. But you are mistaken. Let your 
sister speak. If she says she is bound to give me up, I shall 
abide by her wishes to tne slightest word." 

" It was for my father's sf£e, Philip," said Maggie implex 
ingly. " Tom tlireatens to tell my fsCther — and he couldn't 
bear it : I have promised, I have vowed solenmly, that we 
will not have any intercourse without my brother's know- 
ledge." 

'' It is enough, Maggie. I shall not change ; but I wish 
you to hold yourself entirely free. But trust me — ^remember 
that I can never seek for anything but good to what belongs 
to you." 

" Yes," said Tom, exasperated by this attitude of Philip's, 
" you can talk of seeking good for her and what belongs to 
her now : did you seek her good before ?" 

" I did — at some risk, perhaps. But I wished her to have 
a friend for life — who would cherish her, who would do her 
more justice than a coarse and narrow-minded brother, that 
she has always lavished her affections on." 

" Yes, my way of befriending her is different from yours ; 
and I'll tell you what is my way. I'll save her from disobey- 
ing and disgracing her father : I'll save her from throwing 
herself away on you — ^from making herself a laughing-stock — 
from being flouted by a man like your father, because she's 
not good enough for his son. You know well enough what 
sort of justice and cherishing you were preparing for her. 
I'm not to be imposed upon by fine words : I can see what 
actions mean. Come away, Maggie." 

He seized Maggie's wrist as he spoke, and she put out her 
left hand. PhiHp clasped it in an instant, with one eager 
look, and then hurried away. • 

Tom and Maggie walked on in silence for some yards. He 
was still holding her wrist tightly, as if he were compelling a 
culprit from the scene of action. At last Maggie, with a 
violent snatch, drew her hand away, and her pent-up, long- 
gathered irritation burst into utterance. 

" Don't suppose that I think you are right, Tom, or that I 



THB HILL ON THE FLOSS. 30? 

bow to your will. I despise the feelings you have shown in 
speaking to Philip : I detest your insulting, unmanly allusions 
to his deformity. You have been reproaching other people 
all your life — you have been always sure you yourself are 
right : it is because you have not a mind large enough to see 
that there is anything better than your own conduct and your 
own petty aims." 

" Certainly," said Tom, coolly. " I don't see that your con- 
duct is better, or your aims either. If your conduct and Philip 
Wakem's conduct has been right, why are you ashamed of 
its being known ? Answer me that. I know what I have 
aimed at in my cpnduct, and I've succeeded: pray, what 
good has your conduct brought to you or any one else ?" 

"I don't want to defend myself," said Maggie, still with 
vehemence : " I know I have been wrong — often, continually. 
But yet, sometimes when I have done wrong, it has been 
because I have feelings that you would be the better for, if 
you had them. If you were in fault ever — ^if you had done 
anything very wrong, I should be sorry for the pain it 
brought you ; I should not want punishment to be heaped on 
you. But you have always enjoyed punishing me — ^you have 
always been hard and cruel to me : even when I was a little 
girl, and always loved you better than any one else in the 
world, you would let me go crying to bed without forgiving 
me. You have no pity : you have no sense of your own 
imperfection and your own sins. It is a sin to be hard ; it is 
not fitting for a mortal — ^for a Christian. You are nothing 
but a Pharisee. You thank God for nothing but your own 
virtues — ^you think they are great enough to win you every- 
thing else. You have not even a vision of feelings by the 
side of which your shining virtues are mere darkness I" 

" WeU," said Tom, with cold scorn, " if your feelings are 
so much better than mine, let me see you show them in some 
other way than by conduct that's likely to disgrace us all — 
than by ridiculous flights first into one extreme and then into 
another. Pray, how have you shown your love, that you . 
talk of, either to me or my fether ? By disobeying and 
deceiving us. I have a different way of snowing my affec- 
tion." 

'* Because you are a man, Tom, and have power, and can 
do something in the world." 

" Than if you can do nothing, submit to those that can." 

" So I will submit to what I acknowledge and feel to be 
right. I will submit even to what is unreasonable from my 
fitther, but 1 will not submit to it from you. You boast of 
your virtues as if they purchased you a rigliti to \i^ ^x^s^^o^ 



308 THB lOLL ON THB FL088. 

unmanly aayonVe been to-day. Don't stmpose I would give 
np Philip Wakem in obedience to you. The deformity you 
insult would make me ding to him and care for him the 
more." 

" Very well — ^that is your view of things," said Tom, more 
coldly than ever ; '^ you need say no more to show me what a 
wide distance there is between us. Let us remember that in 
future, and be silent." 

Tom went back to St. Ogg's, to ftdffl an appointment with 
his uncle Deane, and receive directions about a journey on 
which he was to set out the next morning. 

Maggie went up to her own room to pour out all that 
indignant remonstrance, against which Tom's mind was dose 
barred, in bitter tears. Then, when the first burst of unsatis- 
fied anger was gone by, came the recollection of that quiet 
time before the pleasure which had ended in to-day's misery 
had perturbed tne clearness and simplicity of her life. I^he 
used to think in that time that she had made great conquests, 
and won a lasting stand on serene heights above worldly 
temptations and conflict. And here she was down again in 
the thick of a hot strife with her own and others' passions. 
Life was not so short, then, and perfect rest was not so near 
as she had dreamed when she was two years younger. There 
was more struggle for her — ^perhaps more felhng. If she had 
felt that she was entirely wrong, and that Tom had been 
entirely right, she could sooner have recovered more inward 
harmony ; but now her penitence and submission were con- 
stantly obstructed by resentment that would present itself to 
her no otherwise than as a just indignation. Her heart bled 
for Philip : she went on recalling the insults that had been 
flung at him with so vivid a conception of what he had felt 
imder them, that it was almost like a sharp bodily pain to her, 
making her beat the floor with her foot, and tighten her fingers 
on her palm. 

And yet, how was it that she was now and then consdous 
of a certain dim background of relief in the forced separation 
from Philip ? Surely it was only because the sense of a deli- 
verance from concealment was welcome at any cost. 



CHAPTER VI. 

THE HABD-WON TRIUMPH. 

Thbeb weeks later, when Dorloote Mill was at its prettiest 
moment in all the year — ^the great chestnuts in blossom, and 
the grass a,ll deep and daisied — Tom Tulliver came home to 
it earlier than usual in the evening, and as he passed over the 
bridge, he looked with the old deep-rooted affection at the 
respectable red brick-house, which always seemed cheerful 
and inviting outside, let the rooms be as bare and the hearts 
as sad as they might, inside. There is a very pleasant light 
in Tom's blue-erey eyes as he glances at the nouse-windows : 
that fold in his brow never disappears, but it is not unbecom- 
ing ; it seems to imply a strength of will that may possibly be 
without harshness, when the eyes and mouth have their gen- 
tlest expression. His firm step becomes quicker, and tha coi^- 
ners of his mouth rebel against the compression which is 
meant to forbid a smile. 

The eyes in the parlor were not turned towards the bridge 
just then, and the group there was sitting in unexpectant silence 
— Mr. Tulliver in his armchair, tired with a long ride, and 
ruminating with a worn look, fixed chiefly on Maggie, who 
was bendmg over her sewing while her mother was making 
the tea. 

They all looked up with surprise when they heard the well- 
known foot. 

" Why, what's up now, Tom ?" said his father. " You're 
a bit earlier than usual." 

" Oh, there was nothing more for me to do, so I came away. 
Well, mother 1" 

Tom went up to his mother and kissed her, a siga of unu- 
sual good-humor with him. Hardly a word or look had passed 
between him and Maggie in all the three weeks; but his 
usual incommunicativeness at home prevented this from being 
noticeable to their parents. 

" Father," said Tom, when they had finished tea, " do you 
know exactly how much money there is in the tin box ?'* 

" Only a hundred and niuCTy-three pound," said Mr. Tul- 
liver. " You've brought less o' late — but young fellows like 
to have their own way with their money. Thow.^ \ ^c^acix* 



310 THE HILL ON THE FL06B. 

do as I liked before Zwas of age.'' He spoke with rather 
timid discontent. 

" Are you quite sure that's the sum, fiither ?^^ said Tom : 
" I wish you would take the trouble to fetch the tin box down. 
I think you have perhaps made a mistake." 

^'How should I make a mistake ?" said his &ther, sharply. 
"Pve counted it often enough : but I can fetch it, if you won't 
believe me." . 

It was always an incident Mr. Tulliver liked, in his gloomy 
life, to fetch the tin box and count the money. 

" Don't go out of the room, mother," said Tom, as he saw 
her moving when his father was gone upstairs. 

" And isn't Maggie to go ?" said Mrs. Tulliver, " because 
somebody must take away the things." 

" Just as she likes," said Tom, indifferently. 

That was a cutting word to Maggie. Her heart had leaped 
with the sudden conviction that Tom was going to tell thdr 
&ther the debts could be paid — ^and Tom would have let her 
be absent when that news was told ! But she carried away 
the tray, and came back immediately. The feeling of injury 
on her own behalf could not predominate at that moment. 
« Tom drew to the comer of the table near his father when 
the tin box was set down and opened, and the red evening 
li^ht falling on them made conspicuous the worn, sour gloom 
of the dark-eyed father and the suppressed joy in the face of 
the fair-complexioned son. The mother and Maggie sat at 
the other end of the table, the one in blank patience, the 
other in palpitating expectation. 

Mr. Tulliver counted out the money, setting it in order on 
the table, and then said glancing sharply at Tom — 

"There, now ! you see I was right enough." 

He paused, looking at the money with bitter despondency. 

" There's more nor three hundred wanting — ^it'll be a fme 
while before J can save that. Losing that forty-two pound 
wi' the com was a sore job. This world's been too many for 
me. It's took four year to lay this by — ^it's much if I'm 

above ground for another four year I must trusten to 

you to pay 'em," he went on with a trembling voice, " if you 

Keep i' the same mind now you're coming o' age But 

you're like-enough to bury me first." 

He looked up in Tom's face with a querulous desire for 
some assurance. 

" No, father," said Tom, speaking with energetic decision, 
though there was tremor discernible in his voice too, " you 
will five to see the debts all paid. You shall pay them with 
jour own hand." 



THE HILL ON THE FLOSS. 311 

His tone implied something more than mere hopefulness or 
resolution. A slight electric shock seemed to pass through 
Mr. Tulliver, and he kept his eyes fixed on Tom with a look 
of eager inquiry, while Maggie, unable to restrain herself;, 
rushed to her father's side and knelt down by him. Tom 
was silent a little while before he went on. 

" A good while ago, my uncle Glegg lent me a little money 
to trade with, and that has answered. I have three hundred 
and twenty pounds in the bank." 

His mother's arms were round his neck as soon as the last 
words were uttered, and she said, halJ^rying — 

" Oh, my boy, I knew you'd make iverything right again, 
when you got a man." 

But his fether was silent : the flood of emotion hemmed in 
all power of speech. Both Tom and Maggie were struck 
with fear lest the shock of joy might even be fatal. But the 
blessed relief of tears came. The broad chest heaved, the 
muscles of the face gave way, and the grey-haired man burst 
into loud sobs. The fit of weeping gradually subsided, and 
he sat quiet, recovering the regularity of his breathing. At 
last he looked up at his wife and said, in a gentle tone — 

" Bessy, you must come and kiss me now — ^the lad has made 
yon amends. You'll see a bit o' comfort again belike." 

When she had kissed him7 and he had held her hand a 
minute, his thoughts went back to the money. 

" I wish you'd brought me the money to look at, Tom," he 
said, fingering the sovereigns on the table ; " I should ha' felt 
surer." 

" You shall see it to-morrow, father," said Tom. " My 
uncle Deane has appointed the creditors to meet to-morrow 
at the Golden Lion, and he has ordered a dinner for them at 
two o'clock. My uncle Glegg and he will both be there. It 
was advertised in the Messenger on Saturday." 

** Then Wakem knows on't !'' said Mr. Tulliver, his eye 
kindling with triumphant fire. " Ah !" he went on, with a 
long-drawn guttural enunciation, taking out his snuff-box, the 
only luxurjr he had left himself, and tapping it with some- 
thing of his ©Id air of defiance — " I'll get from under his 
thumb now — though I must leave th' old miU. I thought 

I could ha' held out to die here — ^but I can't We've 

got a glass o' nothing in the house, have we, Bessy ?" 

" Yes," said Mrs. Tulliver, drawing out her much-reduced 
bunch of keys, " there's some brandy sister Deane brought 
me when I was ill." 

" Get it me, then, get it me. I feel a bit weak." • 

"Tom, my lad," he said, in a stronger voice, ^VvfiOL\i^ \ia.^ 



812 THE MILL ON THE FL068. 

taken some brandy-and- water, "you Bhall make a speech to 
»era. I'll tell 'em it's you as got the beat part o» the money. 
They'll see I'm honest at last, and ba' got aa honest son. 
Ah ! Wakem 'ud be fine and glad to have a son like mine— • 
fine straight fellow — i'stead o* that poor crooked creator I 
You'll prosper i' the world, my lad ; you*ll maybe see the 
day when Wakem and hb son 'ull be a round or two bdoir 
you. You'll like enough be ta'en into partnership, as your 
uncle Deane was before you — ^you're in the right way fort; 
and then there's nothing to hinder your getting rich. .... 
And if ever you're rich enough — ^mind this — ^try and get th' 
old mill again." 

Mr. Tulliver threw himself back in his chair : his mind, 
which had so long been the home of nothing but bitter dis- 
content and foreboding, suddenly filled, by the magic of joy, 
with visions of good fortune. But some subtle influence 
prevented him from foreseeing the good fortune as happening 
to himself. 

" Shake hands wi' me, my lad," he s^d, suddenly putting 
out his hand. ^^ It's a great thing when a man can be pi^ 
as he's got a good son. I've had that luck." 

Tom never lived to taste another moment so delicious as 
that ; and Maggie couldn't help forgetting her own grievances. 
Tom was good ; and in the sweet humility that springs in us 
all in moments of true admiration and gratitude, ^e felt that 
the faults he had to pardon in her had never been redeemed, 
as his faults were. She felt no jealousy this evening that, for 
the first time, she seemed to be thrown into the background 
in her father's mind. 

There was much more talk before bed-time. Mr. Tulliver 
naturally wanted to hear all the particulars of Tom's trading 
adventures, and he listened with growing excitement and 
delight. He was curious to know what had been said on 
every occasion — ^if possible, what had been thought ; and Bob 
Jakin's part in the business threw him into peculiar outbursts 
of sympathy with the triumphant knowingness of that remark- 
able packman. Bob's juvenile history, so far as it had come 
under Mr. Tulliver's knowledge, was recalled with that sense 
of astonishing promise it displayed, which is observable in all 
reminiscences of the childhood of great men. 

It was well that there was this interest of narrative to keep 
under the vague but fierce sense of triumph over Wakem, 
which would otherwise have been the channel his joy would 
have rushed into with dangerous force. Even as it was, that 
feeling from time to time gave threats of its ultimate mastery, 
in sudden bursts of irrelevant exclamation. 



THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 313 

It was long before Mr. Talliver got to sleep that nigbt, and 
the sleep, wnen it came, was filled with vivid dreams. At 
half-past five o'clock in the morning, when Mrs. Tulliver was 
already rising, he alarmed her by starting np with a sort of 
smothered shout, and looking around in a bewildered way at 
the walls of the bedroom. 

** What's the matter, Mr. TuUiver?" said his wife. He 
looked at her, stUl with a puzzled expression, and said at 
last— ^ 

"Ah! — ^I was dreaming .... did I make a noise ? .... I 
thought I'd got hold of mm.** 



CHAPTER VH. 

A DAT OP BSCKONING. 



Mb. Tullivbb was an essentially sober man — able to take 
his glass and not averse to it, but never exceeding the bounds 
of moderation. He had naturally an active Hotspur tempera- 
ment, which did not crave liquid fire to set it a-glow ; his 
impetuosity was usually equal to an exciting occasion without 
any such reinforcements ; and his desire for the brandy-and- 
water implied that the too sudden joy had fallen with a dan- 
gerous shock on a frame depressed by four years of gloom 
and unaccustomed hard fare. But that first doubtM totter- 
ing moment passed, he seemed to gather strength with his 
gathering excitement ; and the next da^, when he was seated 
at table with his creditors, his eye kmdling and his cheek 
flushed with the consciousness that he was about to make an 
honorable figure once more, he looked more like the proud, 
confident, warm-hearted and warm-tempered Tulliver of old 
times, than mieht have seemed possible to any one who had 
met him a week before, riding alon^ as had been his wont for 
the last four years since the sense of f^ulure and debt had been 
upon him — ^with his head hanging down, casting brief, unwill- 
ing looks on those who forced themselves on his notice. He 
made his speech, asserting his honest principles with his old 
confident eagerness, alludmg to the rascals and the luck that 
had been a^nst him, but that he had triumphed over, to some 
extent, bjrliard efiTorts and the aid of a good son ; and wind- 
ing up with the story of how Tom had got the best part of 
the needAil money. But the streak of irritation and hostile 
triumph seemed to melt for a little while into purer &\h&T\:|^ 
pride and pleasure, when, Tom's health having tjefcn Y^o^^«fcQ^^ 

O 



814 THB KILL ON THE VLOflS. 

and uncle Deane having taken oooasipn to say a few vordB of 
eulogy on his general character and conduct, Tom liiinBetf got 
np and made the single speech of his life. It conld haraly 
have been briefer : he thanked the gentlemen for the htmtx 
they had done him. He was ^lad that he had been able to 
help his father in proving his integrity and regaining his 
honest name ; and, for his owti part, he hoped he should never 
undo that work and disgrace that name. But the applanfie 
that followed was so great, and Tom looked so g^itlemanly 
as well as tall and straight, that Mr. TnUiver remarked, in an 
explanatory manner, to his friends on his ri^t and left, that 
he had spent a deal of money on his son's e&cation. 

The party broke up in very sober &shion at ^ve o'clock. 
Tom remained in St. Ogs's to attend to some business, and 
Mr. Tulliver mounted his horse to go home, and describe the 
memorable things that had been said and done, to *'poor 
Bessy and the nttle wench." The air of excitement that 
hung about him was but fidntly due to good cheer or any 
stimulus but the potent wine of triumphant joy. He did not 
choose any back street to-day, but roae slowly, with uplifted 
head and free glances, along the principal street i^ tibe way 
to the bridge. Why did he not hai>pen to meet Wakemf 
The want of that coincidence vexed him, and set his mind at 
work in an irritating way. Perhaps Wakem was ffone out 
of town to-day on purpose to avoid seeing or heanng any- 
thing of an honorable action, which might well cause lum 
some unpleasant twinges. If Wakem were to meet him then, 
Mr. Tulhver would look straight at him, and the rascal would 
perhaps be forsaken a little by his cool domineering impu- 
dence. He would know by-and-by that an honest man was 
not goin^ to serve him sn^ longer, and lend his honesty to 
fill a pocKet already full of <ushonest gains. Perhaps the luck 
was beginning to turn ; perhaps the devil didn't always hold 
the best cards in this world. 

Simmering in this way, Mr. Tulliver approached the yard- 
sates . of Dorlcote Mill, near enough to see a well-known 
figure conung out of them on a fine black horse. - They met 
about fifty yards from the gates, between the great chestnuts 
and elms and the high bank. 

" Tulliver," said Wakem, abruptly, in a haughtier tone than 
usual, ^^what a fool's trick you did — spreading tiiose hard 
lumps on that Far Close. I told you how it woidd be; but 
you men never learn to farm with any method." 

" Oh !" said Tulliver, suddenly boiling up. ** Qet some- 
bodyelse to farm for you, then, as '11 ask you to teach him." 

*^Tou have been drinking, I suppose," said Wakem, really 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 815 

belieying that this was the meaning of TuUirer's flashed &ce 
and spiking eyes. 

" No, I've not been drinking," said Tulliver ; " I want no 
drinking to help me make np my mind as I'll serve no longer 
mider a scomidrel." 

" Very well ! you may leave my premises to-morrow, then : 
bold your insolent tongue and let me pass." (Tulliver was 
backing his horse across the road to hem Wakem in.) 

" No, I %harCt let you pass," said Tulliver, getting fiercer. 
♦' I shall tell you what I think of you first. You're too big a 
raskill to get hanged — ^you're . . ." 

" Let me pass, you ignorant brute, or I'U ride over you." 

Mr. Tulliver spurring his horse and raising his whip, made 
a rush forward, and Wakem's horse rearing and staggering 
backward, threw his rider from the saddle and sent hmi ffl.de- 
ways on the ground. Wakem had had the presence of mind 
to loose the bridle at once, and as the horse only staggered a 
few paces and then stood still, he might have risen and 
remoimted without more inconvenience than a bruise and a 
shake. But before he could rise, Tulliver was off his horse 
too. The sight of the long-hated predominant man down and 
in his power, threw him into a frenzy of triumphant vengeance, 
which seemed to give him preternatural agihty and strength. 
He nudied on Wakem, who was in the act of trying to 
recover his feet, grasped him by the left arm so as to press 
Wakem's whole weight on the right arm which rested on the 
ground, and flogged him fiercely across the back with his 
riding-whip. Wakem shouted for help, but no help came, until 
a woman2s scream was heard, and the cry of " Father, father !" 

Suddenly, Wakem felt, something had arrested Mr. TuUi- 
ver's arm ; for the flogging ceased, and the grasp on his own 
arm was relaxed. 

" Get away with you — go I" said Tulliver, angrily. But it 
was not to Wakem that he spoke. Slowly the lawyer rose, 
and, as he turned his head, saw that Tulliver's arms were 
being held by a girl — ^rather by the fear of hurting the girl 
that clung to him with all her young might. 

" Oh, Luke — smother — come and help Mr. Wakem I" Maggie 
cried, as she heard the longed-for footsteps. 

" Help me on to that low horse," said Wakem to Luke, 
^ then I shall perhaps manage : though — confound it — ^I think 
this arm is sprained." 

With some difficulty, Wakem was heaved on to Tulliver's 
horse. Then he turned towards the miller and said, white 
with rage, " You'll suffer for tWs, sir. Your daughter is a 
witness that you've assaulted me." 



816 THX MILL ON TBM VLOflfl. 

^I dont care," said Mr. TnUiver, in a thick, fierce Yoioe; 
*^ go and show them your back, and tell 'em I thrashed 701L 
Tell 'em Vve made tmngs a bit more even i' the world.'' 

*^ Bide my horse home with me," said Wakem. to Luke. 
" By the Toften Ferry — ^not through the town,** 

^ Father, come in !" said Maggie, imploringly. Then, seeiDg 
that Wakem had ridden off, and that no further violence was 
possible, she slackened her hold and burst into h^isteric sobs, 
while poor Mrs. Tulliver stood by in nlence, quivering with 
fear. But Maggie became conscious that as she waa slacken- 
ing her hold, her fiither was beginning to grasp her and lean 
on her. The surprise checked her sobs. 

" I feel ill — ^fiuntish," he said. " Help me in, Bessy — ^I'm 
giddy — ^Fve a pan i' the head." 

He walked m slowly, propped by his wife and danshter, 
and tottered into his arm-chair. The almost purple fla£ had 
given way to paleness, and his hand was cold. 

^^ Hadn't we better send for the doctor ?" said Mrs. Tulliver. 

He seemed to be too fidnt and suffering to hear her ; but 
presently, when she said to Maggie, ^' Go and see for some- 
body to fetch the doctor," he looked up at her with full com- 
prehension, and said, ^^ Doctor ? no — no doctor. It's my head 
— that's alL Help me to bed," 

Sad ending to the day that had risen on them all like a 
beginning of better times ! But mingled seed must bear a 
mingled crop. 

In half an hour after his father had lain down Tom came 
home. Bob Jakin was with him — come to congratulate " the 
old master," not without some excusable pride that he had 
had his share in bringing about Mr. Tom's good-luck ; and Tom 
had thought his father would like nothing better, as a finish 
to the day, than a talk with Bob. But now Tom could only 
spend the evening in gloomy expectation of the unpleasant 
consequences that must follow on this mad outbreak of his 
father's long-smothered hate. After the painful news had 
been told, he sat in silence : he had not spirit nor inclination 
to tell his mother and sister anything about the dinner — ^they 
hardly cared to ask it. Apparently the mingled thread in 
the web of their life was so curiously twisted together, that 
there could be no joy without a sorrow coming close upon it. 
Tom was dejected by the thought that his exemplary effort 
must always be baffled by the wrong-doing of others : Maggie 
was living through, over and over again, the agony of the 
moment in which she had rushed to throw herself on her 
fiither's arm — with a vague, shuddering foreboding of wretched 
Bcenea to come. Not one of the three felt any particular 



THB MILL ON THB FLOSS. 317 

alarm about Mr. TuUiver's health: the symptoms did not 
recall his former dangerous attack, and it seemed only a neces- 
sary consequence that his violent passion and effort of strength, 
after many hours of unusual excitement, should have made 
him feel iU. Rest would probably cure him. 

Tom, tired out by his active day, fell asleep soon, and slept 
soundly : it seemed to him as if he had only just come to bed, 
when he waked to see his mother standing by him in the grey 
light of early morning. 

" My boy, you must get up this minute : I*ve sent for the 
doctor, and your fiither wants you and Maggie to come to him." 

" Is he worse, mother P'* 

" He's been very ill aU night with his bead, but he doesn't 
say it's worse — ^he only said sudden, * Bessy, fetch the boy 
and girl. Tell 'em to make haste.' " 

Ma^e and Tom threw on their clothes hastily in the chiU 
grey light, and reached their Other's room almost at the same 
moment. He was watching for them with an expression of 
pain on his brow, but with sharpened anxious consciousness 
in his eyes. Mrs. Tulliver stood at the foot of the bed, fright- 
ened and trembling, looking worn and aged from dutun)ed 
rest. Maggie was at the bedside first, but her Other's glance 
was towards Tom, who came and stood next to her. 

^^ Tom, my lad, it's come upon me as I shan't get up again 
.... This world's been too many for me, my la^ but you've 
done what you could to make things a bit even. Shake hands 
wi' me again, my lad, before I go away from you." 

The Neither and son clasped hands and looked at each other 
an instant. Then Tom said, trying to speak firmly — 

" Have you any wish, father — that I can fulfil, when . . . ." 

** Ay, my lad ... . you'U try and get the old mill back." 

** Yes, father." 

" And there's your mother — ^you'll try and make her amends, 

all you can, for my bad luck and there's the little 

wench . . . ." 

The father turned his eves on Maggie with a stiU more 
eager look, while she, with a bursting heart, sank on her 
knees, to be closer to the dear, time-worn fiu^ which had been 
present with her through long years, as the sign of her deep- 
est love and hardest trial. 

" You must take care of her, Tom .... don't you fret, my 
wench .... there'll come somebody as'll love you and take 
your part .... and you must be good to her, my lad. I was 
good to my nster. Kiss me, Maggie. • . . Come, Bessy. . • . 
You'll manage to pay for a brick grave, Tom, so as your 
mother and me can lie together." 



318 THX MIUL 02r THX WLO&k 

He looked away from them all when he had aaid thu, and 
lay silent for some minutes, while they stood watching him, 
not daring to move. The morning U^t was gr o w in g dearer 
for them, and they could see the heayiness gathering in his 
iace, and the dulness in his eyes. But at last he looked 
towards Tom and said — 

*^I had my turn — ^I beat him, lliat was nothing but £ur. 
I never wanted anything but what was fiur." 

^But, father, dear &ther,'' said Maggie, an nnspeakaUe 
anxiety predominating over her grie( ^you forgiye him— 
you forgive every one now ?*• 

He did not move his eyes to look at her, but he said — 

^'No, my wench. I don't for^ve him. What's 

fonnving to do ? I cant love a raskill ....'* 

His voice had become thicker ; but he wanted to say more, 
and moved his lips again and again, strugg^g in yain to 
speak. At length the words forced thdr way. 

*^Does God forgive raskills? .... but if He does, He 
won't be hard wi' me." 

His hands moved uneasily, as if he -wanted them to remove 
some obstruction that weighed upon hiuL Two or three times 
there fell from him some broken words — 

^'Tbis world's .... too many .... honest man • • . . 
puzzling ....'* 

Soon they merged into mere mutterings; the eyes had 
ceased to discern ; and then came the final silence. 

But not of death. For an hour or more the chest heaved, 
the loud hard breathing continued, getting gradually slower, 
as the cold dews gathered on the brow. 
^ At last there was total stiUness, and poor Tulliver'a dimly- 
lighted soul had for ever ceased to be vexed with the painful 
riddle of this world. 

Help was come now : Luke and his wife were there, and 
Mr. TumbuU had arrived, too late for everything but to say, 
« This is death." 

Tom and Maggie went down-stairs together into the room 
where their fether's place was empty. Their eyes turned to 
the same spot, and Maggie spoke : 

"Tom, forgive me — ^let us always love each other,** and 
they clung and wept together. 



BOOK SIXTH. 

THE GREAT TEMPTATION. 
CHAPTER L 

A DUET IN PASADISB. 

The well-furnished drawing-room, with the open grand piano, 
and the pleasant outlook down a sloping garden to a boat- 
house by the side of the Floss, is Mr. Deane's. The neat 
little^iady in mourning, whose li^ht-brown ringlets are falling 
over the colored embroidery with which her fingers are busy, 
is of course Lucy Deane ; and the fine young man who is 
leaning down from his chair to snap the scissors in the ex- 
tremely abbreviated face of the " King Charles " lying on the 
young lady's feet, is no other than Mr. Stephen Guest, whose 
diamond ring, attar of roses, and air of nonchalant leisure, at 
twelve o'clock in the day, are the graceful and odoriferous 
result of the largest oil-null and the most extensive wharf in 
St. Ogg's. There is an apparent triviality in the action with 
the scissors, but your discernment perceives at once that there 
is a design in it which makes it eminently worthy of a large- 
headed, long-limbed young man ; for you see that Lucy wants 
the scissors, and is compelled, reluctant as she maj be, to 
shake her ringlets back, raise her soft hazel eyes, smile play- 
fully down on the face that is so verv nearlv on a level with 
her knee, and holding out her little snell-pink palm, to say — 

" Mv scissors, please, if you can renounce the great plea- 
sure of persecuting my poor Minny." 

The roolish scissors have slipped too &r over the knuddes, it 
seems, and Hercules holds out his entrapped fingers hope- 
lessly. 

** Confound the scissors ! The oval lies the wrong way, 
please draw them off for me." 

" Draw them off with your other hand," says Miss Lucy, 
roguishly. 

" Oh, but that's my left hand : I'm not left-handed." Lucy 
laughs, and the scissors are drawn off with gentle touches 
from tiny tips, which naturally dispose Mr. Stephen for a t«^ 



320 THB MILL ON THB FLOSS. 

tition da capo. Accordingly he watches for the release of the 
scissors, that he may get them into his possession again. 

" No, no,'* said Lucy, sticking them in her band, " you 
shall not have my scissors again — ^you have strained them 
already. Now dont set Minnj growling again. Sit up and 
behave properly, and then I will tell you some news.'' 

^^ What IS tliat ? '' said Stephen, throwing himself back and 
hanging his right arm over the comer of his chair. He might 
have been sitting for his portrait, which would h&ve repre- 
sented a rather striking young man of five-and-twenty, with 
a s(|uare forehead, short dark-brown hair standing erect, with 
a shght wave at the end, like a thick crop of com, and a half- 
ardent, half-sarcastic glance fi-om under his well-marked hori- 
zontal eyebrows. " Is it very important news ? " 

" Yes — ^very. Guess." 

*^ You are going to change Minny's diet, and give him three 
ratafias soaked in a dessert-spoonful of cream daily." 

" Quite wrong." 

'' Well, then. Dr. Kenn has been preaching against buck- 
ram, and you ladies have all been sending him a round-robin, 
sa3rinff — ' This is a hard doctrine ; who can bear it ? ' " 

^^ For shame ! " said Lucy, adjusting her little mouth 
gravely. " It is rather dull of you not to guess my news, 
because it is about something I mentioned to you not very 
long ago." 

" But you have mentioned many things to me not long ago. 
Does your feminine tyranny require that when you say the 
thing you mean is one of several things, I should know it 
immediately by that mark?" 

" Yes, I know you think I am silly." 

" I think you are perfectly charming." 

" And my silliness is part of my charm ? " 

" I didn't say thaV 

" But I know you like women to be rather inripid. Philip 
Wakem betrayed you : he said so one day when you were 
not here." 

^' Oh, I know Phil is fierce on that point ; he makes it 
quite a personal matter, I think he must be lovesick for 
some unknown lady — ^some exalted Beatrice whom he met 
abroad." 

" By the by ! " said Lucy, pausing in her work, " it has just 
occurred to me that I have never found out whether my 
cousin Maggie will object to see Philip, as her brother does. 
Tom wiU not enter a room where Philip is, if he knows it : 
perhaps Maggie may be the same, and then we shan't be able 
to sing our glees — sh^ we ? '* 



THB HILL ON THE FLOSS. 321 

** What ! is your cousin coming to stay with you ? " said 
Stephen, with a look of slight annoyance. 

" Yes ; that was my news which you have forgotten. She's 
going to leave her situation, where she has been nearly two 
years, poor thing — ever since her father's death ; and she will 
stay with me a month or two— many months, I hope." 

*' And am I bound to be pleased at that news ? " 

" Oh no, not at all," said Lucy, with a little air of pique. 
** JT am pleased, but that, of course, is no reason why y(m 
should be pleased. There is no girl in the world I love so 
well as my cousin Maggie." 

"And you will be inseparable, I suppose, when she comes. 
There will be no possibility of a iMerdMte with you any more, 
unless you can find an admirer for her, who will pair off with 
her occasionally. What is the -ground of dislike to Philip ? 
He might have been a resource." 

"It is a family quarrel with Philip's father. There were 
very painful circumstances, I believe. I never quite under- 
stood them, or knew them all. My uncle Tulliver was unfor- 
tunate and lost all his property, and I think he considered Mr. 
Wakem was somehow the cause of it. Mr. Wakem bought 
Dorlcote Mill, my uncle's old place, where he always lived. 
You must remember my unde Tulliver, don't you ? " 

" No," said Stephen, with rather supercilious indifference. 
**I've always known the name, and I daresay I knew the man 
by sight, apart from his name. I know half the names and 
mces m the neighborhood in that detached, disjointed way." 

" He was a very hot-tempered man. I remember, when I 
was a little girl, and used to go to see my cousins, he often 
frightened me by talking as if he were angry. Papa told me 
there was a dreadful quarrel, the very day before my uncle's 
death, between him and Mr. Wakem, but it was hushed up. 
That was when you were in London. Papa says my uncle 
was quite mistaken in many ways : his mind had become em- 
bittered. But Tom and Maggie must naturally feel it very 
painful to be reminded of these things. They have had so 
much — so very much trouble. Maggie was at school with me 
six years ago, when she was fetched away because of her 
Other's misfortunes, and she has hardly had anjr pleasure 
since, I think. She has been in a dreary situation m a school 
since uncle's death, because she is determhied to be indepen- 
dent, and not live with aunt Pullet ; and I could hardlv wish 
her to come to me then, because dear mamma was ill, and 
everything was so sad. That is why I want her to come to me 
now, and have a long, long holiday." 

" Very sweet and angelic of yon," said Stephen^ looking ^ 

02 



322 ^^HB MILL ON THB ILOflS. 

her with an admiring smile ; ** and all the more so if she has 
the conversational qualities of her mother.** 

** Poor aunty I i ou are cruel to ridicnle her. She is very 
valuable to me, I know. She manages the house b^tutifully— 
much better than any stranger would — and she was a great 
comfort to me in manmia's illness.** 

^^ Yes, but in point of companionship, one would prefer that 
she should be represented by her brandy-cherries and oream- 
cakes. I think with a shudder that her daughter will always 
be present in person, and have no agreeable proxies of that 
kind — a fat, blonde girl, with round blue eyes, who will stare 
at us silently." 

^^ Oh yes !" exclaimed Lucy, laughing wickedly and clapping 
her hands, '' that is just my cousin Maggie. You must have 
seen her 1'* 

"No, indeed: I'm only guessing what Mrs. Tulliver*s 
daughter must be ; and then if she is to banish PhOip, our 
only apology for a tenor, that will be an additional bore.'* 

" But I hope that may not be. I think I will ask you to call 
on Philip and tell him Maggie is coming to-morrow. He is 
quite aware of Tom's feeling, and always keeps out of his way ; 
so he will understand, if you tell him, that I lusked you to warn 
him not to come until I write to ask him." 

" I think you had better write a pretty note for me to take : 
Phil is so sensitive, you know, the least thing might frighten 
him off coming at all, and we had hard work to get him. I 
can never induce him to come to the Park : he doesn't like my 
sisters, I think. It is only your faSry touch that can lay his 
ruffled feathers." 

Stephen mastered the little hand that was straying towards 
the table, and touched it lightly with his lips. Little Lucy 
felt proud and happy. She and Stephen were in that stage of 
courtship which makes the most exquisite moment of youth, 
the freshest blossom-time of passion — when each is sure of the 
other's love, but no formal declaration has been made, and all 
is mutual divination, exalting the most trivial word, the light- 
est gesture, into thrills delicate and deliciousas wailed jasmine 
scent. The explicitness of an engagement wears off this finest 
edge of susceptibility]: it is jasmine gathered and presented in 
a large bouquet. 

" But it is really odd that you should have hit so exactly on 
Maggie's appearance and manners," said the cunning Lucy, 
moving to reach her desk, " because she might have been like 
her brother, you know ; and Tom has not round eyes ; and he 
is as far as possible from staring at people." 

" Oh, I suppose he is like the father : he seems to be as 



THS MILL ON THB FLOSS. a23 

proud as Lucifer. Not a brilliant companion though, I should 
think.'* 

^* I like Tom. He gave me my lifinny when I lost IaAo ; 
and papa is very fond of him : he says Tom has excellent prin- 
ciples. It was through him that his father was able to pay ail 
his debts before he died." 

^^ Oh, ah ; I've heard about that. I heai'd your fisither and 
mine talking about it a little while ago, after dinner, in one of 
their interminable discussions about business. They think of 
doing something for young Tulliver : he saved them from a 
considerable loss by riding home in some marvellous way, like 
Turpin, to bring them news about the stoppage of a bank, or 
something of that sort. But I was rather drowsy at the 
time." 

Stephen rose from his seat, and sauntered to the piano, 
humming in &lsetto, ^^ Graceful C!onsort," as he turned over 
the volume of *^The Creation," which stood open on the desk. 

^' Come and sing this," he said, when he saw Lucy rising. 

" What ! * Graceful Consort ?» I don't think it suits your 
voice." 

^^ Never mind ; it exactly suits my feeling, which, Philip will 
have it, is the graind element of good singm^. I notice men 
with indifferent voices are usually of that opmion." > 

^^ Philip burst into one of his invectives against ^The 
Creation' the other day," said Lucy, seating herself at^tba 
piano. ^'He says it has a sort of sugared complacency and 
flattering make-believe in it, as if it were written for the 
birthday f^te of a German Grand-Duke." 

'^ Oh, pooh I He is the fidlen Adam with a soured temper. 
We axe Adam and Eve un&Uen, in paradise. Now, then — ^the 
fecitative, for the sake of the moral. Tou will sing the whole 
duty of woman — ^And from obedience grows my pride and 
happiness.' " 

^^ Oh no, I shall not respect an Adam who drags the tempo, 
as you will," said Lucy, beginning to play the duet. 

Surely the only courtship unshaken by doubts and fears, 
must be that in which the lovers can sing togiither. The 
sense of mutual fitness that springs from the two deep notes 
fulfilling expectation just at the right moment between the 
notes of the silvery soprano, from the perfect accord of 
descending thirds and fifths, from the preconcerted loving 
chase of a fugue, is likely enoush to supersede any immediate 
demand for less impasmoned forms of agreement. The con- 
tralto will not care to catechise the bass ; the tenor will foresee 
no embarrassing dearth of remark in evenings spent with the 
lovely soprano. In the provinces} tpo, where music was so 



324 THB lOLL Olf THE KL06& 

floaroe in that remote time, how could the musical people 
avoid £sJling in love with each other ? Even political prmoiple 
most have been in danger of relaxation under such drcom- 
stanoes ; and a violin, fidthful to rotten boroughs, must have 
been tempted to firatemise in a demoralising way with a 
reforming violoncello. In this case, the linnet-throated sopraiio^ 
and the full-toned bass, singing, 

" "With thee delight is ever new, 
With thee is life inoeflBant bUas," 

believed what they sang all the more heccmse they sang it* 

^^Now for Raphael's great song," said Lucy, when they 
had finished the duet. ^' You do the ^ heavy beasts' to per- 
fection." 

^'That sounds complimentary," said Stephen, looking at his 
watch. ^^ By Jove, it's nearly half-past one. Well, I can just 
sing this." 

Stephen delivered with admirable ease the deep notes 
representing the tread of the heavy beasts: but when a 
singer has an audience of two, there is room for divided senti- 
ments. Minny's mistress was charmed ; but Minny, who had 
intrenched himself, trembling, in his basket as soon as the 
mufflc began, found this thunder so little to his taste that he 
leaped out and scampered under the remotest chiffonxbre^ as 
the most eligible place in which a small dog could await the 
crack of doom. . 

"Adieu, * graceful consort,'"- said Stephen, buttoning his 
coat across when he had done singing, and smilij&g down from 
his tall height, with the air of rather a patronising lover, at the 
little lady on the music-stool. " My bliss is not incessant, for 
I must gallop home. I promised to be there at lunch." 

" You will not be able to call on Philip, then ? It is of no 
consequence : I have said everything in my note." 

"You will be engaged with your cousin to-morrow, I 
suppose ?" 

"Yes, we are going to have a little femily-party. My 
cousin Tom will dine with us ; and poor aunty will have her 
two children together for the first time. It will be very 
pretty ; I think a great deal about it." 

" But I may come the next day ?" 

" Oh yes 1 Come and be introduced to my couidn Maggie 
— ^though you can hardly be said not to have seen her, you 
have described her so well." 

" Good-by, then." And there was that slight pressure of 
the hands, and momentary meeting of the eyes, which wiU 



THE MILL ON THB FLOSS, 325 

often leave a little lady with a slight flush and igpiile on her 
face that do not subside immediately when the door is closed, 
and with an inclination to walk up and down the room rather 
than to seat herself quietly at her embroidery, or other 
rational and improving occupation. At least this was the 
effect 01^ Lucy ; and you will not, I hope, consider it an indi- 
cation of vanity predominating over more tender impulses, 
that she just glanced in the chimney-glass as her walk brought 
her near it. The desire to know that one has not looked an 
absolute fright during a few hours of conversation, may be 
construed as lying wiuiin the bounds of a laudable benevolent 
consideration for others. And Lucy had so much of this 
benevolence in her nature that I am inclined to think her 
small egoisms were impregnated with it, just as there are 
people not altogether unknown to you, whose small benevo- 
lences have a predominant and somewhat rank odor of egoism. 
Even now, that she is walking up and down with a little 
triumphant flutter of her girlish heart at the sense that she is 
loved by the person of chief consequence in her small world, 
you may see in her hazel eyes an ever-present sunny benignity, 
m which the momentary harmless flashes of personal vanity 
are quite lost ; and if she is happy in thinking of her lover, it 
is because the thought of him mingles readily with all the 
gentle affections and good-natured offices with which she fills 
her peaceful days. Even now, her mind, with that instan- 
taneous alternation which makes two currents of feeling or 
imagination seem simultaneous, is glancing continually from 
Stephen to the preparations she has omy half finished in 
Maggie's room. Cousin Maggie should be treated as well as 
the grandest lady visitor — ^nay, better, for she should have 
Lucy's best prints and drawings in her bedroom, and the very 
finest bouquet of spring flowers on her table. Mag^e would 
enjoy all that — she was so fond of pretty thhigs 1 And there 
was poor aunt Tulliver, that no one made any account of — she 
was to be surprised with the present of a cap of superlative 
quality, and to have her health drunk in a gratifying manner, 
for which Lucy was going to lay a plot with her father this 
evening. Clearly, she had not time to indulge in long reveries 
about her own happy love-affairs. With this thought she 
walked towards the door, but paused there. 

"What's the matter, then, Minny?" she said, stooping in 
answer to some whimpering of that small quadruped, and 
lifting his glossy head against her pink cheek. "Did you 
think I was going without you ? Come, then, let us go and 
see Sindbad." 

Sindbad was Lucy's chestnut horse, that she always -fe^ 



826 THE HILL ON THE VL08S. 

with her own hand when he was tamed ont in the paddock. 
She was fond of feeding dependent creatures, and knew the 
private tastes of all the animals about the house, delighting 
in the little rippline sounds of her canaries when their beaks 
were busy with frew seed, and in the small nibbling pleasures 
of certain animals which, lest she should appear toortrivial, I 
will here call ^^ the more familiar rodents.'' 

Was not Stephen Guest right in his dedded opinion that 
this slim maiden of eighteen was quite the sort of wife a man 
would not be likely to repent of marrying? — a woman who 
was loving and thoughtful for other women, not giving them 
Judas-kisses with eyes askance on their welcome defects, but 
with real care and vision for their half-hidden pains and 
mortifications, with long ruminating enjoyment of Uttle plea- 
sures prepared for them ? Perhaps the emphasds of his admi- 
ration did not fall precisely on this rarest quality in her — 
perhaps he approvea his own choice of her chiefly because 
she did not strike him as a remarkable rarity. A man likes 
his wife to be pretty ; well, Lucy was pretty, but not to a 
maddening extent. A man likes his wife to be accomplished, 
gentle, affectionate, and not stupid ; and Lucy had all these 
qualifications. Stephen was not surprised to find himself in 
love with her, and was conscious of excellent judgment in 
preferring her to Miss Leybum, the daughter of the county 
member, although Lucy was only the daughter of his father's 
subordinate partner ; besides, he had had to defy and over- 
come a slight unwillingness and disappointment in his father 
and sisters — ^a circumstance which gives a young man an 
agreeable consciousness of his own dignity. Stephen was 
aware that he had sense and independence enough to choose 
the wife who was likely to make him happy, unbiassed by any 
indirect considerations. He meant to choose Lucy : she was 
a little darling, and exactly the sort of woman he had always 
most admired. 



CHAPTER n. 

FIBST IMPBESSIONS. 



" He is very clever, Maggie," said Lucy. She was kneel- 
ing on a footstool at Maggie-s feet, after placing that dark 
lady in the large crimson-velvet chair. " I feel sure you wiU 
like him. I hope you will." 

^^I shall be very difficult to please," said Maggie, smiling, 



THE MIU/ ON THB FLOSS. 327 

and boldisg up one of Lucy's long curls, that the sunlight 
might shine through it. ^^ A gentleman who thinks he is good 
enough for Lucy must expect to be sharply criticised." 

^^ Indeed, he's a great deal too good for me. And some- 
times, when he is away, I almost think it can't really be that 
he loves me. But I can never doubt it when he is with me — 
though I couldn't bear any one but you to know that I feel 
in that way, Maggie." 

" Oh, then, if I disapprove of him, you can give him up, 
since you are not engaged,"- said Maggie with playful 
gravity. 

"I would rather not be engaged. When people are 
engaged, they begin to think of being married soon," said 
Lucy, too thoroughly preoccupied to notice Maggie's joke ; 
" and I should like everything to go on for a long while just 
as it is. S<Hnetimes I am quite frightened lest Stephen 
should say that he has spoken to papa ; and from something 
that fell from papa the other day, I feel sure he and Mr. 
Guest are eicpecting that. And Stephen's sisters are very 
civil to me now. At first, I think they didn't like his paying 
me attention ; and that was natural. It does seem out of 
keeping that I should ever live in a great place like the Park 
House-Hsuch a little, insignificant thing as I am." . 

" But people are not expected to be large in proportion to 
the houses they live in, like snails," said Maggie, laughing. 
" Pray, are Mr. Guest's sisters giantesses ?" 

" Oh no J and not handsome — that is, not very," said Lucy, 
half-jpenitent at this uncharitable remark. ^^But he is — at 
least he is generally considered very handsome." 

"Though you are unable to share that opinion?" 

" Oh*, I don't know," said Lucy, blushing pink over brow 
and neck. " It is a bad plan to raise expectation ; you will 
perhaps be disappointed. But I have prepared a charming 
surprise for him ; I shall have a glorious laugh against him. 
I shall not tell you what it is, though." 

Lucy rose from her knees and went to a little distance, 
holding her pretty head on one side, as if she had been 
arranging Maggie for a portrait, and wished to judge of the 
general effect. 

" Stand up a moment, Maggie.'* 

"What IS your pleasure now?" said Maggie, smiling 
lanffuidly as she rose from her chair and looked down on her 
slight atrial cousin, whose figure was quite subordinate to her 
faultless drapery of silk and crape. 

Lucy kept her contemplative attitude a moment or two in 
silence, ana then said-r- 



828 THS MILL ON THX FLOttU 

^' I can't think wliat witcheiy it is in yon, Maggie, that 
makes you look best in shabby clothes ; though you reaUy 
must have a new dress now. But do you know, last night I 
was trying to fancy you in a handsome &shionable dress, and 
do what I would, that old limp merino would oome back as 
the only right thing for you. I wonder if Marie Antoinette 
looked all the grander when her gown was darned at the 
elbows. Now, if I were to put anting shabby on, I diould 
be quite unnoticeable — ^I should be a mere rag.** 

"Oh, quite," said Maggie, with mock gravity. *'You 
would be liable to be swept out of the room with the cob- 
webs and carpet-dust, and to find yourself under the grate, 
like Cinderella. Mayn't I sit down now?" 

" Yes, now you may," said Lucy, laughing. Then, with an 
air of serious reflection, un&stening her hu^ jet brooch, 
" But you must change brooches, Mi^gie; that little batter- 
fly looks silly on you." 

" But won^t that mar the charming effect of my conostent 
shabbiness ?" said Maggie, seating herself submissiyely, while 
Lucy knelt again and un&stened the contemptible butterfly. 
" I wish my mother were of your opinion, for she was fretting 
last night because this is my best frock. I've been saving my 
money to pay for some lessons : I shall never get a better 
situation without more accomplishments." 

Maggie gave a little sigh. 

" ^w, don't put on that sad look again," said Lucy, pin- 
ning the large brooch below Maggie's fine throat. " You're 
forgetting that you've left that dreary schoolroom behind 
you, and have no little girls' clothes to mend." 

" Yes," said Maggie. " It is with me as I used to think it 
would be with the poor uneasy white bear I saw at the show. 
I thought he must have got so stupid with the habit of tumr 
ing backwards and forwards in that narrow space, that he 
would keep doing it if they set him free. One gets a bad 
habit of being unhappy." 

"But I shaS put you under a discipline of pleasure that will 
make you lose that bad habit," said Lucy, sticking the black 
butterfly absently in her own collar, while her eyes met Mag- 
gie's affectionately. 

" You 'dear, tiny thing," sdd Maggie, in one of her bursts 
of loving admiration, " you enjoy other people's happiness so 
much, I believe you would do without any of your own. I 
wish I were like you." 

" I've never been tried in that way," swd Lucy. *' Fve 
always been so happy. I don't know whether I could bear 
much trouble ; I never had any but poor mamma's death* 



i 



THE MILL ON THE FL0S6. 829 

Yon have been tried, Siaggie; and I'm sure you feel for 
other people quite as much as I do." 

" No, Lucy," said Maggie, shaking her head slowly, " I don't 
enjoy their happiness as you do— else I should be more con- 
tented. I do feel for them when they are in trouble ; I don't 
think I could ever bear to make any one t/nhappy ; and yet I 
often hate myself because I get angry sometimes at the sight 
of happy people. I think I get worse as I get older — ^more 
selfish, lliat seems very dreadful." 

" Now, Maggie 1 " said Lucy, in a tone of remonstrance, " I 
don't believe a word of that. It is all a gloomy &ncy— -just 
because you are depressed by a dull, wearisome life." 

" Well, perhaps it is," said Maggie, resolutely clearing away 
the clouds from her &ce with a bright smile, and throwing 
herself backward in her chair. ^^ Perhaps it comes from the 
school diet — ^watery rice-pudding spiced with Pinnock. Let us 
hope it will give way before my mother's custards and this 
charming Geoffrey Crayon." 

Maggie took up the *' Sketch Book," which lay by her on 
the t^e. 

"Do I look fit to be seen with this little brooch?" ssdd 
Lucy, going to survey the effect in the chimney-glass. 

" Oh no, Mr. Guest will be obliged to go out of the room 
again if he sees you in it. Pray make haste and put another 
on." 

Lucy hurried out of the room, but Mag^e did not take the 
opportunity of opening her book : she let it fall on her knees, 
wbile her eyes wandered to the window, where she could see 
the sunshine falling on the rich clumps of spring flowers and on 
the long hedge of laurels — ^and beyond, the silvery breadth 
of the dear old Floss, that at this distance seemed to be sleep- 
ing in a morning holiday. The sweet fi-esh garden scent came 
through the open window, and the birds were busy flitting 
and ahghting, gurgling and singing. Yet Maggie's eyes began 
to fill with tears. The sight of the old scenes had made the 
rush of memories so painml, that even yesterdnv she had only 
been able to rejoice in her mother's restored comfort and 
Tom's brotherly friendliness as we rejoice in good news of 
£iends at a distance, rather than in the presence of a happi- 
ness which we share. Memory and imagination urged upon 
her a sense of privation too Keen to let her taste what was 
offered in the transient present : her future, she thought, was 
likely to be worse than ner past, for after her years of con- 
tented renunciation, she had slipped back into desire and 
longing: she found joyless days of distasteful occupation harder 
and harder — she found the image of the intense and varied 



830 THX lOLL OK THB FL0B8. 

life Bhe yearned for, and despaired of^ becoming more and 
more importunate. The sonnd of the opening door roused her, 
and, hastily wiping away her tears, fihe began to turn over 
the leaves of her book. ^ 

^ There is one pleasure, I know, Maggie, that your deepest 
dismalness will never resist," said Lney,be^nning to speaK as 
soon as she entered the room. *^ That is music, and 1 mean 
you to have quite a riotous feast of it. I mean you to get up 
your playing again, which used to be so much better than 
mine, when we were at Laceham.'' 

^^ You would have laughed to see me playing the little ^rls' 
tunes over and over to them, when I took them to practice,'' 
said Maggie, ^^ just for the sake of fingering the dear keys 
a^in. But I don't know whether I couM play anything more 
difficult now than * Begone, dull care 1 '" 

" I know what a wild state of joy you used to be in when 
the glee-men came round," said Jjucv, taking up her embroi- 
dery, ^^ and we might have all those old glees that you used to 
love so, if I were certain that you ddnt feel exactly as Tom 
does about some things." 

" I should have thought there was nothing you migbt be 
more certain of," said Maggie, smiling. 

^' I ought rather to have said, one particular thing. Because 
if you feel just as he does about that, we shall want a third 
voice. St. Ogg's is so miserably provided with musical gen- 
tlemen. There are really only Stephen and Philip Wakem 
who have any knowledge of music, so as to be able to sing a 
part." 

Lucy had looked up from her work as she uttered the last 
sentence, and saw that there was a change in Maggie's 
face. 

" Does it hurt you to hear the name mentioned, Maggie ? 
If it does, I will not speak of him again. I know Tom will 
not see him if he can avoid it." 

" I don't feel at all as Tom does on that subject," said Mag- 
gie, rising and going to the window as if she wanted to see 
more of the landscape. " I've always liked Philip Wa^em 
ever since I was a little girl, and -saw him at Lorton. He was 
so good when Tom hurt his foot." 

" Oh, I'm so glad !" said Lucy. " Then you won't mind his 
coming sometimes, and we can have mucn more music than 
we could without him. Pm very fond of poor Philip, only I 
wish he were not so morbid about his deformity. I suppose 
it is his deformity that makes him so sad — and sometimes bit- 
ter. It is certainly very piteous to see his poor little crooked 
body and pale face among great atrong people," 



THS MILL ON THE FLOSS. 331 

"But, Luoy," said Maggie, trying to arrest the prattling 
stream .... 

" Ah, there is the door bell. That must be Stephen," Lucy 
went on, not noticing Mag^e's faint effort to speak. " One 
of the things I most admire in Stephen is, that he makes a 
greater friend of Philip than any one." 

It was too late for Magj^e to speak now : the drawing-room 
door was opening, and Jmnny was already growling in a small 
way at the entrance of a tall gentleman, who went up to Lucy 
and took her hand with a half-polite, half-tender glance and tone 
of inquiry, which seemed to mdicate that he was unconscious 
of any other presence. 

" Let me introduce you to my cousin, Miss TuUiver," said 
Lucy, turning with wicked enjoyment towards Maggie, who 
now approached from the farther window. " This is Mr. Ste- 
phen Guest." 

For one instant Stephen could not conceal his astonishment 
at the sight of this tall dark-eyed nymph with her jet-black 
coronet of hair ; the next, Maggie felt herself, for the first 
tune in her life, receiving the tnbute of a very deep blush and 
a very deep bow from a person towards whom she herself 
was conscious of timidity. This new experience was very 
agreeable to her — so agreeable, that it almost effaced her 
previous emotion about Philip. There was a new brightness 
m her eyes, and a very becoming flush on her cheek, as she 
seated herself. 

" I hope you perceive what a striking likeness you drew 
the day before yesterday," said Lucy, with a pretty laugh of 
triumph. She enjoyed her lover's confusion — ^the advantage 
was usually on his side. 

" This designing cousin of yours quite deceived me. Miss 
Tnlliver," said Stephen, seating himself by Lucy, and stooping 
to play with Minny — only looking at Maggie ftirtively. " She 
said you had light hair and blue eyes." 

" Nay, it was you who said so," remonstrated Lucy. " I 
only refrained from destroying your confidence in your own 
seoond-si^ht." 

" I wish I could always err in the same way," said Stephen, 
" and find reality so much more beautiful than my preconcep- 
tions." 

" Now you have proved yourself equal to the occasion,*' 
said Maggie, ^^ and said what it was incumbent on you to say 
under the circumstances." 

She flashed a slightly defiant look at him : it was clear to 
her that he had been drawing a satirical portrait of her 
beforehand. Lucy had said he was inclined to be satirical^ 



882 THX mix ON THB FL068. 

and Maggie had mentallj supplied the addition — ^ and rather 
conceited.'* 

^^ An alarming amount of devil there," was Stephen's first 
thought. The second, when she had bent over her work, 
was, ^^ I wish she would look at me again." The next was, 
to answer : 

^^ I suppose all phrases of mere compliment have their turn 
to be true. A man is occasionally grateful when he says 
^ thank you.' It's rather hard upon him that he must use the 
same words with which all the world declines a disagreeable 
invitation— don't you think so, Miss TuUiver ?»* 

^^ No," said Maggie, looking at him with her direct glance ; 
" if we use common words on a great occasion, they are the 
more striking, because they are felt at once to have a parti- 
cular meaning, like old banners, or everyday clothes, hung up 
in a sacred place." 

^^Then my compliment ought to be eloquent," said Stephen, 
really not quite knowing what he said while Maggie looked 
at him, ^^ seeing that therwords were so &r beneath the occa- 
sion." 

^^ No compliment can be eloquent, except as an expresdon 
of indifference," said Mag^e, flushing a httle. 

Lucy was rather alarmed : she thought Stephen and Mag- 
^e were not going to like each other. She had always feared 
lest Maggie should appear too odd and clever to please 
that critical gentleman. "Why, dear Mag^e," she inter- 
posed, " you have always pretended that you are too fond of 
being admired, and now, I think, you are angry because some 
one ventures to admire you." 

" Not at all," said Maggie ; " I like too well to feel that I 
am admired, but compliments never make me feel that." 

" I will never pay you a compliment again. Miss Tulliver,'* 
said Stephen. 

" Thank you ; that will be a proof of respect." 

Poor Maggie! She was so unused to society that she 
could take nothing as a matter of course, and had never in 
her life spoken from the lips merely, so that she must neces- 
sarily appear absurd to more experienced ladies, from the 
excessive feeling she was apt to tnrow into very trivial inci- 
dents. But she was even conscious herself of a little absur- 
dity in this instance. It was true, she had a theoretic objection 
to compliments, and had once said impatiently to Philip, that 
she didn't see why women were to be told with a simper that 
they were beautiful, any more than old men were to be told 
that they were venerable : still, to be so irritated by a com- 
mon practice in the case of a stranger like Mr. Stephen Ouest, 



THB iOLL ON" THE 1X06S. d3S 

and to care about his having spoken slightingly of her before 
he had seen her, was certainly unreasonable, and as soon as 
she was silent she began to be ashamed of herself. It did not 
occur to her that her irritation was due to the pleasanter 
emotion which preceded it, just as when we are satisfied with 
a sense of glowing warmth, an innocent drop of cold water 
may fall upon us as a sudden smart. 

Stephen was too well-bred not to seem unaware that the 
previous conversation could have been felt embarrassing, and 
at once began to talk of impersonal matters, asking Lucy if 
she knew when the bazaar was at length to take place, so that 
there might be some hope of seeing her rain the influence of 
her eyes on objects more grateful than those worsted flowers 
that were growing under her fingers. 

" Some day next month, I believe," said Lucy. " But your 
sisters are doing more for it than I am : they are to have the 
largest stall." 

" Ah, yes ; but they carry on their manufactures in their 
own sitting-room, where I don't intrude on them. I see you 
are not addicted to the fashionable vice of fancy-work, Miss 
Tulliver," said Stephen, looking at Maggie's plain hemming. 

" No," said Maggie, " I can do noSiing more difficult or 
more elegant than shirt-making." 

" And your plain sewing is so beautiful, Maggie," said Lucy, 
^^ that I think I shall beg a few specimens of you to show as 
fency-work. Your exquisite sewing is quite a mystery to me 
— ^you used to dislike that sort of work so much in old 
days." 

" It is a mystery easily explained, dear," said Maggie, look- 
ing up quietly. " Plain sewing was the only thing I could 
get money by ; so I was obliged to try and do it well." 

^^^7) good and simple as she was, could not help blushing 
a little : she did not quite like that Stephen should know that 
— Maggie need not have mentioned it. Perhaps there was 
some pride in the confession : the pride of poverty that will 
not be ashamed of itself. But if Maggie had been the queen 
of coquettes she could hardly have invented a means of giving 
greater piquancy to her beauty in Stephen's eyes : I am not 
sure that the quiet admission of plain sewing and poverty 
would have done alone, but assisted by the beauty, they made 
Maggie more unlike other women even than she had seemed 
at first. 

" But I can knit, Lucy," Maggie went on, " if that will be 
of any use for your bazaar." 

^ Oh yes, of infinite use. I shall set you to work with 
scarlet wool to-morrow. But your sister is the most enviable 



884 THJB lOLL OK THE SLOflS. 

person," continued Lucy, turning to Stephen, ** to have the 
talent of modelling. She is doing a wondering bust of Dr. 
Kenn entirely from memory." 

"Why, if she can remember to put the eyes very near 
together, and the comers of the mouth very &r apart^ the 
likeness can hardly fail to be striking in St. Ogg's." 

" Now, that is very wicked of you," said liucy, looking 
rather hurt. " I didn't think you would speak disrespectfully 
of Dr. Kenn." 

" I say anything disrespectful of Dr. Kenn? Heaven for- 
bid ! But I am not bound to respect a libellous bust of him. 
I think Kenn one of the finest fellows in the world. I dont 
care much about the tall candlesticks he has put on the oom- 
munion-table, and I shouldn't like to spoil my temper by 
getting up to early prayers every morning. But he's the only 
man I ever knew personally who seems to me to have any- 
thing of the real apostle in him — a man who has eight hun- 
dred a-year, and is contented with deal furniture and boiled 
beef because he gives away two-thirds of his income. That was 
a very fine thing of him — ^taking into his house that poor lad 
Grattan who shot his mother by accident. He sacrifices more 
time than a less busy man could spare, to save the poor fellow 
from getting into a morbid state of mind about it. He takes 
the lad out with him constantly, I see." 

"That is beautiful," said Maggie, who had let her work 
fall, and was listening with keen interest. " I never knew any 
one who did such things." 

"And one admires that sort of action in Kenn all the 
more,'' said Stephen, "because his ndanners in general are 
rather cold and severe. There's nothing sugary and maudlin 
about him." 

" Oh, I think he's a perfect character I" said Lucy with 
pretty enthusiasm. 

" No, there I can't agree with you," said Stephen, shaking 
his head with sarcastic gravity. 

" Now, what fault can you point out in him ? " 

" He's an Anglican." 

"Well, those are the right views, I think," said Lucy, 
gravely. 

" That settles the (juestion in the abstract," said Stephen, 
" but not fi-om a parhamentary point of view. He has set the 
Dissenters and the Church people by the ears ; and a rising 
senator like myself, of whose services the country is very 
much in need, will find it inconvenient when he puts up for 
the honor of representing St. Ogg's in parliament." 

"Do you really think of that ? " said Lucy, her eyes bright- 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 885 

ening with a proud pleasure that made her neglect the arga- 
mentative interests of AngBcanism. 

" Decidedly — ^whenever old Mr. Leybum's public spirit and 
gout induce him to give way. My father's heart is set on it ; 
and gifts like mine, you know ^ — ^here Stephen drew himself 
up, and rubbed his large white hands ever his hair with play- 
ful self-admiration — ^^ ^ifts like mine involve great responsibi- 
lities. Don't you think so, Miss Tulliver ? »» 

" Yes," said Maggie, smiling, but not looking up ; " so much 
fluency and self>possession should not be wasted entirely on 
private occasions." 

" Ah, I see how much penetration you have," said Stephen. 
^^ You have discovered abready that 1 am talkative and impu- 
dent. Now superficial people never discern that — owing to 
my manner, I suppose." 

" She doesn't look at me when I talk of myself," he 
thought, while his listeners were laughing. '^ I must try other 
subiects." 

Did Lucy intend to be present at the meeting of the Book 
Club next week ? was the next question. Then followed the 
recommendation to choose Southey's " Life of Cowper," unless 
she were inclined to be philosophical, and startle the ladies of 
St. Ogg's by voting for one of the Bridgewater Treatises. Of 
course Lucy wished to know what these alarmingly learned 
books were ; and as it is always pleasant to improve the minds 
of ladies by talking to them at ease on subjects of which they 
know nothing, Stephen became quite brilliant in an account 
of Buckland's Treatise, which he had just been reading. He 
was rewarded by seeing Maggie let her work fall, and gradu- 
ally get so a)>sorbed in his wonderful gecdogical story tmtt she 
sat looking at him, leaning forward with crossed arms, and 
with an entire absence of self-consciousness, as if he had been 
the snuffiest of old professors, and she a downy-lipped alum- 
nus. He was so &scinated by this clear, large gaze, that at 
last he forgot to look away from it occasionally towards Lucy ; 
but she, swaet child, was only rejoicing that Stephen was 
proving to Maggie how clever he was, and that they would 
certainly be ^ood friends after all. 

^' I will bnng you the book, shall I, Miss Tulliver ?" said 
Stephen, when he found the stream of hiis recollections running 
rather shallow. '^ There are many illustrations in it that you 
will like to see." 

" Oh, thank you," said Maggie, blushing with returning 
sel^consciousness at this direct address, and taking up her 
work again. 

*^ No, no," Lucy interposed. '^ I must forbid your plan^^8% 



836 IHB MILL ON THE FL068. 

Magpie in books. I shall never get her awajfrom them; 
and I want her to have delicions do-nothing days, filled with 
boating, and chatting, and riding, and driving : that is the 
holiday she needs." 

^Apropos!'' said Stephen, looking at his watch. ^^ Shall 
WQ go oat for a rotr on the river now? The tide will suit for 
us to go the Toflon way, and we can walk back." 

That was a delishtfal proposition to Maggie, for it was 
years since she had been on the river. When she was gone 
to put on her bonnet, Lucy lingered to ^ve an order to the 
servant, and took the opportunity of telling Stephen that 
Maggie had no objection to seeing Philip, so that it was a 
pity she had sent that note the day before yesterday. But 
she would write another to-morrow and invite him. 

" I'll call and beat him up to-morrow," said Stephen, "and 
bring him with me in the evening, shall I ? My sisters will 
want to call on you when I tell them your cousin is with yoo. 
I must leave the field clear for them in the morning." 

" Oh, yes, pray bring him," said Lucy. " And you toiU like 
Maggie, shan't you ?" she added, in a beseeching tone. " IsnH 
she a dear, noble-looking creature ?" 

'^ Too tall," said Stephen, smiling down upon her, *^ and a 
little too fiery. She is not my type of woman, you know." 

Gentlemen, you are aware, are apt to impart these impru- 
dent confidences to ladies concerning their unfiivorable opinion 
of sister fair ones. That is why so many women have the 
advantage of knowing that they are secretly repulsive to men 
who have self-denyingly made ardent love to them. And 
hardly anything could be more distinctively characteristic of 
Lucy, than that she both implicitly believed what Stephen 
said, and was determined that Maggie should not know it. 
But you, who have a higher logic than the verbal to guide 
you, have already foreseen, as the direct sequence to that 
unfavorable opinion of Stephen's, that he walked down to the 
boat-house calculating, by the aid of a vivid imagination, that 
Maggie must give him her hand at least twice in consequence 
of this pleasant boating plan, and that a gentleman who wishes 
ladies to look at him is advantageously situated when he is 
rowing them in a boat. What then ? Had he fallen in love 
with this surprising daughter of Mrs. Tulliver at first sight ? 
Certainly not. Such passions are never heard of in real life. 
Besides, he was in love already, and half-engaged to the dear- 
est little creature in the world ; and ho was not a man to 
make a fool of himself in any way. But when one is five- 
and-twenty, one has not chalk-stones at one's finger-ends 
that the touch of a handsome girl should be entirely indifier- 



THB MILL ON THB SXOSS. 837 

ent. It was perfectly natural and safe to admire beauty and 
enjoy looking at it — at least under such circumstances as the 
present. And there was really something very interesting 
about this girl, with her poverty and troubles : it was grati- 
fying to see the friendship between the two cousins. Gene- 
rally, Stephen admitted, he was not fond of women who had 
any peculiarity of character — ^but here the peculiarity seemed 
of a superior kind ; and provided one is not obliged to marry 
such women, why, they certainly make a variety in social 
intercourse. 

Maggie did not fulfil Stephen's hope by looking at him dur- 
ing the first quarter of an hour : her eyes were too fuU of the 
old banks that she knew so well. She felt lonely, cut off from 
Philip — the only person who had ever seemed to love her 
devotedly, as she had always longed to be loved. But pre- 
sently tne rhythmic movement of the oars attracted her, 
and she thought she should like to learn how to row. This 
roused her from her reverie, and she asked if she might take 
an oar. It appeared that she required much teaching, and she 
became ambitious. The exercise brought the warm blood 
into her cheeks, and made her inclined to take her lesson 
merrily. 

^^ I shall not be satisfied until I can manage both oars, and 
row you and Lucy," she said, looking very bright as she step- 
ped out of the boat. Maggie, we know, was apt to forget the 
thing she was doing, and she had chosen an inopportune mo- 
ment for her remark : her foot slipped, but happily Mr. Stephen 
Guest held her hand, and kept her up with a firm grasp. 

" You have not hurt yourself at all, I hope ? " he said, bend- 
ing to look in her face with anxiety. It was very charming 
to be taken care of in that kind graceful manner by some one 
taDor and stronger than one's-self Maggie had never felt just 
in the same way before. 

When they reached home again, they found uncle and aunt 
Pullet seated with Mrs. Tulliver in the drawing-room, and 
Stephen hurried away, asking leave to come again in the 
evening. 

"And pray bring with you the volume of Purcell that you 
took away," said Lucy. " I want Maggie to hear your best 
songs." 

Aunt Pullet, under the certainty that Magdie would be 
invited to go out with Lucy, probably to Paw: House, was 
much shocked at the shabbiness of her clothes, which, when 
witnessed by the higher society at St. Ogg's, would be a 
discredit to the family, that demanded a strong and prompt 
remedy ; Imd the consultation as to what would be most «niV 

P 



888 THE MILL ON THX FLOSS. 

able to this end from among the superfloities of Mrs. Pullet's 
wardrobe, was one that Lucy as well as Mrs. Tulliver entered 
into with some zeal. Maggie must really have an evening 
dress as soon as possible, and she was about the same height 
as aunt Pullet. 

^' But she's so much broader across the shoulders than I am 
— ^it's very ill-convenient," said Mrs. Pullet, " else she might 
wear that beautiful black brocade o' mine without any altera- 
tion; and her arms are beyond everything," added Mrs. 
Pullet, sorrowfully, as she lifted Maggie's large round arm. 
" She'd never get my sleeves on." 

" Oh never mind that, aunt : pray send us the dress," said 
Lucy. "I don't mean Maggie to have long sleeves, and I 
have abundance of black lace for trimming. Her arms will 
look beautifid." 

" Maggie's arms are a pretty shape," said Mrs. Tulliver, 
" They're like mine used to be — only mine was never brown : 
I wish she'd had our femily skin." 

" Nonsense, aunty I" said Lucy, patting her aunt Tulliver's 
shoulder, "you don't understand those things. A painter 
would think Maggie's complexion beautiful." 

"May be, my dear," said Mrs. Tulliver, submissively. 
" You know better than I do. Only when I was young a 
brown skin wasn't thought well on among respectable folks." 

" No," said imcle Pullet, who took intense interest in the 
ladies' conversation, as he sucked his lozenges. " Though 
there was a song about the ' Nut-brown Maid,' too ; I think 
she was crazy — crazy Kate — ^but I can't justly remember." 

"Oh dear, dear!" said Maggie, laughing, but impatient; 
" I think that will be the end of my brown skin, tf it is always 
to be talked about so much." 



CHAPTER HI. 

CONFIDENTIAL MOMENTS. 



When Maggie went up to the bedroom that night, it appeared 
that she was not at all inclined to undress. She set down her 
candle on the first table that presented itself, and began to 
walk up and down her room, which was a large one, with a 
firm, regular, and rather rapid step, which showed that the 
exercise was the instinctive vent of strong excitement. Her 
eyes and cheeks had an almost feverish brilliancy ; her head 
WSLS thrown backward, and liei baada were clasped with the 



THJC MILL ON THX FLOSS. 839 

palms outward, and with that tension of the arms which is apt 
to accompany mental absorption. 

Had anything remarkable happened ? 

Nothing that you are not likely to consider in the highest 
degree unimportant. She had been hearing some fine music 
sung by a fine bass voice — but then it was sung in a provin- 
cial, amateur fashion, such as would have left your critical ear 
much to desire. And she was conscious of having been 
looked at a great deal, in rather a-furtive manner, from beneath 
a pair of well-marked horizontal eyebrows, with a glance that 
seemed somehow to have caught the vibratory influence of 
the voice. Such things could have had no perceptible effect 
on a thoroughly well-educated young lady, with a perfectly 
balanced . mind, who had had all the advantages of fortune, 
training, and refined society. But if Maggie had been that 
young lady, you would probably have known nothing about 
her : her life would have had so few vicissitudes that it could 
hardly have been written ; for the happiest women, like the 
happiest nations, have no history. 

In poor Maggie's highly-strung, hungry nature — just come 
away from a third-rate schoolroom, with all its jarring sounds 
and petty round of tasks — ^these apparently trivial causes had 
the effect of rousing and exalting her imagination in a way 
that was mysterious to herself. It was not that she thought 
distinctly of Mr. Stephen Guest, or dwelt on the indications 
that he looked ^tiikM^-with admiration ; it was rather that she 
fe}LJ fcb»-%a tf y ( ^ot» pr r n rn r r* nfnr wnrld of Invr and l^uty 

p'>m^py JlBtTromance she had ever read, or had ever woven in 
nejc dJgoftiay gevoriocu. Her mind glanced back once or twice 
to the time when she had courted privation, when she had 
thought all longing, all impatience, was subdued ; but that 
condition seemed irrecoverably gone, and she recoiled from 
the remembrance of it. No prayer, no striving now, would 
bring back that negative peace ; the battle of her life, it 
seemed, was not to be decided in that short and easy way — 
by perfect renunciation at the very threshold of her youth. 
The music was vibrating in her still — ^Purcell's music, with its 
wild pa^on and fancy — and she could not stay in the recollec- 
tion of that bare, lonely past. She was in her brighter 
atrial world again, when a little tap came at the door : of 
coarse it was her cousin, who entered in ample white dressing- 
gown. 

** Why, Magffie, you naughty child, haven't you begun to 
undress ? " said Lucy, in astonishment. '^ I promised not to 
eome and talk to you, becaose I thought 76a must be tiradL 



840 THB MILL ON THX IX08S. 

But here you are, looking as if you were ready to dress for a 
ball. Come, come, get on your dressing-gown, and nnpiut 
your hair." 

" Well, yow are not very forward," retorted Maggie, 
hastily, reaching her own pink cotton gown, and looking si 
Lucy's light-brown hair brushed back in curly disorder. 

^' Oh, I have not much to do. I shall sit down and talk to 
you, till I see you are really on the way to bed." 

While Maggie stood and unplaited her long black hair over 
her pink drapery, Lucy sat down near the toilette-table, watdi- 
ing her with affectionate eyes, and head a little aside, like a 

Eretty spaniel. If it appears to you at all incredible that youn^ 
kdies should be led on to talk confidentially in a situation of 
this kind, I will beg you to remeiuber that human life furnishes 
many exceptional cases. 

" 1 ou really Jiave enjoyed the music to-night, haven't you, 
Maggie ?" 

" Oh yes, that is what prevents me from feeling sleepy. I 
think I should have no other mortal wants, if I could always 
have plenty of music. It seems to infuse strength into my 
limbs and ideas into my brain. Life seems to go on without 
effort, when I am filled with music. At other times one is 
conscious of carying a weight." 

" And Stephen has a splendid voice, hasn't he ? " 

"Well, perhaps we are neither of us judges of that," said 
Maggie, laughing, as she seated herself ana tossed her long 
hair back. " You are not impartial, and I think any barrel- 
organ splendid." 

" But tell me what you think of him, now. Tell me exactly 
— good and bad too." 

" Oh, I think you should humiliate him a little. A lover 
should not be so much at ease, and so self-confident. He ought 
to tremble more." 

" Nonsense, Maggie ! As if any one could tremble at me I 
You think he is conceited — I see that. But you don't dislike 
him, do you ? " 

"Dislike him I No. Am I in the habit of seeing such 
charming people, that I should be very difficult to please ? 
Besides, how could I dislike any one that promised to make 
you happy, you dear thing ! " Maggie pinched Lucy's dim- 
pled chin. 

" We shall have more music to-morrow evening," said Lucy, 
looking happy already, " for Stephen will bring Philip Wakem 
with him." 

" Oh Lucy, I can't see him," said Maggie, turning pale. 
"At least, I could not see him without Tom's leave." 



THE HILL ON THB FLOSS. S4I 

" Is Tom such a tyrant as that ? " said Lucy, surprised. 
" m take the responsibility, then — ^tell him it was my feult.'* 
"But, dear," said Maggie, falteringly, "I promised Tom 
very solemnly — before my father's death — I promised him I 
would not speak to Philip without his knowledge and consent. 
And I have a great dread of opening the subject with Tom — 
of getting into a quarrel with him again." 

" But I never heard of anything so strange and unreason- 
able. What hainn can poor Philip have done ? May I speak 
to Tom about it ? " 

" Oh no, pray don't, dear," said Maggie. " I'll go to him 
myself to-morrow, and tell him that you wish Philip to come. 
I've thought before of asking him to absolve me from my 
promise, but I've not had the courage to determine on it." 

They were both silent for some moments, and then Lucy 
said — 

" Maggie, you have secrets from me, and I have none from 
you." 

Maggie looked meditatively away from Lucy. Then she 
turned to her and said, " I should like to tell you about Philip. 
But, Lucy, you must not betray that you know it to any one 
— ^least of all to Philip himself, or to Mr. Stephen Guest.'' 

The narrative lasted long, for Maggie had never before 
known the relief of such an outpouring : she had never before 
told Lucy anything of her inmost life ; and the sweet face 
bent towards her with sympathetic interest, and the little hand 
pressing hers, encouraged her to speak on. On two points 
only she was not expansive. She did not betray fully what 
still rankled in her mind as Tom's great offence — ^the insults 
he had heaped on Philip. Angry as the remembrance still 
made her, she could not bear that any one else should know it 
all — ^both for Tom's sake and Philip's. And she could not 
bear to tell Lucy of the last scene between her father and 
Wakem, though it was this scene which she had ever since 
felt to be a new barrier between herself and Philip. She 
merely said, she saw now that Tom was, on the whole, right 
in regarding any prospect of love and marriage between her 
and Philip as put out of the question by the relation of the 
two families. Of course Philip's father would never consent. 
" There, Lucy, you have had my story," said Maggie, smil- 
ing, with the tears in her eyes. "You see I am like Sir 
Andrew Ague-cheek — I was adored once." 

" Ah, now I see how it is you know Shakespeare and every- 
thing, and have learned so much since you left school; which 
always seemed to me witchcraft before— part of your general 
uncamiiness," said Lucy. 



842 THB MILL ON THB FLOflB* 

She mused a little with her eyes downward, and then added, 
looking at Maggie, " It is very beautiful that you should love 
Philip : I never thought such a happiness would befall him. 
And m my opinion, you ought not to give him up. There are 
obstacles now ; but they may be done away witn in time.** 

Maggie shook her head. 

" Yes, yes," persisted Lucy ; " I can't help being hopeful 
about it. There is something romantic in it — out of the com- 
mon way — just what everything that happens to you ought 
to be. And Philip will adore you like a husband in a ^ry 
tale. Oh, I shall puzzle my small brain to contrive some plot 
that will bring everybody into the right mind, so that you may 
marry Philip, when I marry — somebody else. WouldnH that 
be a pretty ending to all my poor, poor Maggie's troubles ?^ 

Maggie tried to smile, but shivered, as if she felt a sudden 
chill. 

"Ah, dear, you are cold," said Lucy. "You must go to 
bed ; and so must I. I dare not think what time it is." 

They kissed each other, and Lucy went away — ^possessed 
of a confidence which had a strong influence over her sub- 
sequent impressions. Maggie had been thoroughly sincere : 
her nature had never found it easy to be otherwise. But 
confidences are sometimes blinding, even when they are 
sincere. 



CHAPTER IV. 

BROTHER AND SISTER. 



Maggie was obliged to go to Tom's lodgings in the middle 
of the day, when he would be coming in to dinner, else she 
would not have found him at home. He was not lodging 
with entire strangers. Our friend Bob Jakin had, with 
Mumps's tacit consent, taken not only a wife about eight 
months ago, but also one of those queer old houses pierced 
with surprising passages, by the water-side, where, as he 
observed, his wife and mother could keep themselves out of 
mischief by letting out two " pleasure-boats," in which he 
had invested some of his savings, and by taking in a lodger 
for the parlor and spare bedroom. Under these circumstan- 
ces, what could be better for the interests of all parties, 
sanitary considerations apart, than that the lodger should be 
Mr. Tom ? 

It was Bob's wife who opened the door to Maggie. She 



THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 343 



was a tiny woman, with the general physiognomy of a Dutch 
doll, loolang, in comparison with Bob's mother, who filled up 
the passage in the rear, very much like one of those human 
figures which the artist finds conveniently standing near a 
colossal statue to show the proportions. The tiny woman 
curtsied and looked up at Maggie with some awe as soon as 
she had opened .the door ; but the words, " Is my brother at 
home?" which Maggie uttered smilingly, made her turn 
round with sudden excitement, and say — 

"Eh, mother, mother — ^tell Bob! — ^it's Miss Maggie! 
Come in, Miss, for goodness do," she went on, opening a 
side-door, and endeavoring to flatten her person against the 
wall to make the utmost space for the visitor. 

Sad recollections crowded on Maggie as she entered the 
small parlor, which was now all that poor Tom had to call by 
the name of " home " — that name which had once, so many 
years ago, meant for both of them the same sum of dear 
familiar objects. But everything was not strange to her in 
this new room : the first thing her eyes dwelt on was the 
large old Bible, and the sight was not likely to disperse the 
old memories. She stood without speaking. 

" If you please to take the privilege o' sitting down. Miss," 
said Mrs. Jakin, rubbing her apron over a perfectly clean 
chair, and then lifting up the comer of that gannent and 
holding it to her face with an air of emb|irrassment, as she 
looked wonderingly at Maggie. 

" Bob is at home, then ?" said Maggie, recovering herself, 
and smiling at the bashful Dutch doll. • 

" Yes, Miss ; but I think he must be washing and dressing 
himself — ^I'll go and see," said Mrs. Jakin, disappearing. 

But she presently came back walking with new courage a 
little way behind her husband, who showed the brilliancy of 
his blue eyes and regular white teeth in the doorway, bowing 
respectfully. 

"How do you do. Bob?" said Maggie, coming forward 
and putting out her hand to him ; " I always meant to pay 
your wife a visit, and I shall come another day on purpose 
for that, if she will let me. But I was obliged to come to- 
day, to speak to my brother." 

"He'll be in before long, Miss. He's doin' finelv, Mr. Tom 
is : he'll be one o' the first men hereabouts — ^you'll ^ee that." 

" Well, Bob, I'm sure he'll be indebted to you, whatever 
he becomes : he said so himself only the other night, when 
he was talking of you." 

" Eh, Miss, that's his way o' takin' it. But I think the 
more on't when he says a thiag, because his tongue doem^t 



844 THB MILL ON THX VLOSS. 

overshoot him as mine does. Lorsl I^ no l>etter nor i 
tilted bottle, I am't — I can't stop mysen when once I hesnn 
But you look rarely, Miss — ^it does me good to see you. T^at 
do you say now, Prifisy?" — ^here Bob turned to his wife. 
♦* Isn't it ail come true as I said ? Though there isn't many 
sorts o' goods as I can't over-praise when I set my tongue 
to't." 

Mrs. Bob's small nose seemed to be following the example 
of her eyes in turning up reverentially towards Maggie, but 
she was able now to snule and curtsy, and say, " I'd looked 
forrard like aenything to seein' you, Miss, for my husband's 
tongue's been runnin' on you, like as if he was light-headed, 
iver since first he came a courtin' on me." 

" Well, weU," said Bob, looking rather silly. " Go an» see 
after the taters, else Mr. Tom 'ull have to wait for 'em. 

" I hope Mumps is friendly with Mrs. Jakin, Bob," said 
Maggie, smiling. " I remember you used to say, he wouldn't 
like your marrying.'* 

" Eh, Miss," said Bob grinning, " he made up his mind to't 
when he see'd what a little un she was. He pretends not to 
see her mostly, or else to think as she isn't full-growed. But 
about Mr. Tom, Miss," said Bob, speaking lower and looking 
^rious, " he's as close as a iron biler, he is ; but I'm a 'cutish 
chap, an' when I've left off carrying my pack, an' am at a 
loose end, I've got more brains nor I know what to do wi', 
an' I'm forced to busy myself wi' other folks's insides. An' it 
worrets me as Mr. Tom 'ull sit by himself so glumpish, a-knittin' 
his brow, an' a lookin' at the fire of a night. He should be a 
bit livelier now — a fine young fellow like him. My wife says, 
when she goes in sometimes, an' he takes no notice of her, he 
sits lookin' into the fire, and frownin' as if he was watdiin' 
folks at work in it." 

" He thinks so much about business," said Maggie. 

" Ay," said Bob, speaking lower ; " but do you think it's 
nothin' else, Miss ? He's close, Mr. Tom is ; but I'm a 'cute 
chap, I am, an' I thought tow'rt last Christmas as I'd found 
out a soft place in him. It was about a little black spaniel — 
a rare bit o' breed — as he made a fuss to get. But since then 
summat's come over him, as he's set his teeth agin' things 
more nor iver, for all he's had such good-luck. An' I wanted 
to tell yoUy Miss, 'cause I thought you might work it out of 
him a bit, now you're come. He's a deal too lonely an' 
doesn't go into company enough." 

" I'm afraid I have very little power over him. Bob," swd 
Maggie, a ^ood deal moved by Bob's suggestion. It was a 
totally new idea to her mind, that Tom could have his love 






TUX MILL OK TEQC FLOSS. 845 

troubles. Poor fellow ! — and in love with Lucy too I But it 
was jerhaps a mere fancy of Bob's too officious brain. The 
present of the dog meant nothing more than cousinship and 
gratitude. But Bob had already said, " Here's Mr. Tom," 
and the outer door was opening. 

" There's no time to spare, Tom," said Maggie, as soon as 
Bob had left the room. " I must tell you at once what I came 
about, else I shall be hindering you from taking your dinner." 

Tom stood with his back against the chimney-piece, and 
Maggie was seated opposite the light. He noticed that she 
was tremulous, and he had a presentiment of the subject she 
was going to speak about. The presentiment made ms voice 
colder and harder as he said, " What is it ?" 

This tone roused a spirit of resistance in Maggie, and she 
put her request in quite a different form from the one she had 
predetermined on. She rose from her seat, and, looking 
straight at Tom, said — 

" I want you to absolve me from my promise about Philip 
Wakem. Or rather, I promised you not to see him without 
telling you. I am come to tell you that I wish to see him." 

" V ery well," said Tom, still more coldly. 

But Maggie had hardly finished speaking in that chill, de- 
fiant manner, before she repented, and felt the dread of aliena- 
tion from- her brother. 

" 'Not for myself, dear Tom. Don't be angry. I shouldn't 
have asked it, only that Philip, you know, is a friend of Lucy's, 
and she wishes him to come — ^has invited him to come this 
evening ; and I told her I couldn't see him without telling 
you. I shall only see him in the presence of other people. 
There will never be anything secret between us again." 

Tom looked away from Maggie, knitting his brow more 
strongly for a little while. Then fie turned to her and said, 
slowly and emphatically — 

" You know what is my feeling on that subject, Maggie. 
There is no need for my repeating anything I said a year ago. 
While my father was living, I felt bound to use the utmost 
power over you, to prevent you from disgracing him as well 
as yourself and all of us. But now I must leave you to your 
own choice. You wish to be independent — ^you told me so 
after my father's death. My opinion is not changed. If you 
think of Philip Wakem as a lover again, you must give up 
me." 

" I dod't wish it, dear Tom — at least as things are : I see 
that it would lead to misery. But I shall soon go away to 
another situation, and I should like to be friends with him 
again while I am here. Lucy wishes it." . -^ 

P2 



940 THX lOLL OK THB FL068. 

The severity of Tom's face relaxed a little. 

^^ I shouldn't mind yoar seeing him occasionally at my mide^ 
— I dont want yon to make a fuss on the subject. Bat I 
have no confidence in you, Maggie. You would be led away 
to do an}'thing." 

That Vas a cruel word. Maggie's lip began to tremble. 

" Why will you say that, Tom ? It is very hard of you. 
Have I not done and borne everything as weU as I could? 
And I have kept my word to you — when — ^when .... My 
life has not been a happy one, an^ more than yours." 

She was obliged to be childish — ^the tears would come. 
.-/ When Maggie was not angry, she was as dependent on kind 
/ or cold words as a daisy on the sunshine or the cloud : the 
"" need of being loved would always subdue her, as in old days 
it subdued her in the worm-eaten attic. The brother's good- 
ness came uppermost at this appeal, but it could only show 
itself in Tom's fashion. He put his hand gently on her arm, 
and said in the tone of a kind pedagogue — 

" Now listen to me, Maggie. I'll tell you what I mean. 
You're always in extremes — you have no judgment and self- 
command ; and yet you think you know best, and will not 
submit to be guided. You know I didn't wish you to take a 
dtuatiou. My aunt Pullet was willing to give you a good 
home, and you might have lived respectably amongst your 
relations, until I could have provided a home for you with my 
mother. And that is what I should like to do. I wished my 
sister to be a lady, and I would always have taken care of 
you, as my father desired, until you were well married. But 
your ideas and mine never accord, and you will not give way. 
Yet you might have sense enough to see that a brother, who 

foes out into the world and mixes with men, necessarily 
nows better what is righl and respectable for his sister than 
she can know herself. You think I am not kind ; but my 
kindness can only be directed by what I believe to be good for 
you." 

" Yes — ^I know — dear Tom," said Maggie, still half-sobbing, 
but trying to control her tears. " I know you would do a 
great deal for me : I know how you work and don't spare 
yourself. I am grateful to you. But, indeed, you can't quite 
judge for me — our natures are very different. You don't 
know how differently things affect me from what they do you." 
" Yes, I do know : I know it too well. I know how oiffer- 
ently you must feel about all that affects our family, and your 
own dignity as a young woman, before you could thmk of 
receiving secret addresses from Philip Wakem. If it was not 
disgusting to me in every other way, I shoudd object to my 



THB MILL ON THB FLOSS. 347 

sister's name being associated for a moment with that of a 
young man whose father must hate the very thought of us all, 
and would spurn you. With any one but you, I should think 
it quite certain that what you witnessed just before my father's 
death, would secure you from ever thinking again of Philip 
Wakem as a lover. But I ^on't feel certain of it with you — 
I never feel certain about any thing with you. At one time 
you take pleasure in a sort of perverse self-denial, and at 
another you have not resolution to resist a thing that you 
know to be wrong." 

There was a terrible cutting truth in Tom's words — ^that 
hard rind of truth which is discerned by unimaginative, unsym- 
pathetic minds. Maggie always writhed under this judgment 
of Tom's: she rebelled and was humiliated in the same 
moment : it seemed as if he held a glass before her to show 
her her own foUy and weakness — as if he were a prophetic voice 
predicting her future fallings — and yet, all the whUe, she 
judged him in return : she said inwardly that he was narrow 
and unjust, that he was below feeling those mental needs which 
were often the source of the wrong-doing or absurdity that 
made her life a planless riddle to him. 

She . did not answer directly : her heart was too full, and 
she sat down, leaning her arm on the table. It was no use 
trying to make Tom feel that she was near to him. He 
always repelled her. Her feeling under his words was com- 
plicated by the allusion to the last scene between her father 
and Wakem ; and at length that painful, solemn memory sur 
mounted the immediate grievance. No I She did not think 
of such things with frivolous indifference, and Tom must not 
accuse her of that. She looked up at him with a grave, 
earnest gaze, and said— 

" I can't make you think better of me, Tom, by anything I 
can say. But I am not so shut out from all your feelings as 
you believe me to be. I see as well as you do, that from our 
position with regard to Philip's father — not on other grounds 
— ^it would be unreasonable — ^it would be wrong for us to 
entertain the idea of marriage ; and I have given up thinking 

of him as a lover I am telling you the truth, and you 

have no right to disbelieve me : I have kept my word to you, 
and you have never detected me in a falsehood. I should not 
only not encourage, I should carefully avoid any intercourse 
with Philip on any other footing than that of quiet friendship. 
You may think that I am unable to keep my resolutions ; but 
at least you ought not to treat me with hard contempt on the 
ground of faults that I have not committed yet." 

^' Well, Maggie," said Tom, softening under this appeal, " \ 



848 THB MILL OK THB TLOflB. 

don't want to overstnun matters. I think, all things oon- 
fiidered, it will be best for you to see Philip Wakem, if Lncy 
wishes him to come to the house. I believe what you say— at 
least you believe it yourself I know : I can only warn you. 
I wish to be as good a brother to you as jron will let me." 

There Was a little tremor in Tom's voice as he uttered the 
last words, and Maggie's ready affection came back with as 
sudden a glow as when they were children, and bit their cake 
togetber as a sacrament of conciliation. She rose and laid her 
hand on Tom's shoulder. 

" Dear Tom, I know you mean to be good. I know you 
have had a great deal to bear, and have done a great deal. I 
should like to be a comfort to you — ^not to vex you. You 
don't think I'm altogether naughty, now, do you ?" 

Tom smiled at the eager face : his smiles were very pleasant 
to see when they did come, for the grey eyes could be tender 
underneath the frown. 

" !N'o, Maggie." 

" I may turn out better than you expect," 

" I hope you will." 

^' And may I come some day and make tea for you, and see 
this extremely small wife of Bob's again ?" 

" Yes; but trot away now, for Pve no more time to spare," 
said Tom, looking at his watch. 

" Not to give me a kiss ?" 

Tom bent to kiss her cheek, and then said — 

" There I Be a good girl. I've got a great deal to think 
of to-day. I'm going to have a long consultation with my 
uncle Deane this afternoon." 

" You'll come to aunt Glegg's to-morrow ? We're going 
all to dine early, that we may go there to tea. You must 
come : Lucy told me to say so." 

" Oh, pooh ! I've plenty else to do," said Tom, pulling lus 
bell violently, and bringing down the small bell-rope. 

" I'm frightened — I shall run away," said Maggie, maMng a 
laughing retreat ; while Tom, with masculine philosophy, 
flung the bell-rope to the farther end of the room — not very 
far either : a touch of human experience which I flatter myself 
will come home to the bosoms of not a few substantial or dis- 
tinguished men who were once at an early stage of their rise 
in the world, and were cherishing very large hopes in very 
small lodgings. 



I 



CHAPTER V. 

SHOWING THAT TOM HAD OPENED THE OYSTEB. 

"And now we've settled this IS'ewcastle business, Tom," said 
Mr. Deane, that same afternoon, as they were seated in the 
private room at the Bank together, "there's another matter I 
want to talk to you about. Since you're likely to have rather 
^ smoky unpleasant time of it at Newcastle for the next few 
weeks, you'll want a good prospect of some sort to keep up 
your spirits." 

Tom waited less nervously than he had done on a former 
occasion in this apartment, while his uncle took out his snuff- 
box and gratified each nostril with deliberate impartiality. 

" You see, Tom," said Mr, Deane, at last, throwing himself 
backward, " the world goes on at a smarter pace now than it 
did when I was a young fellow. Why, sir, forty years ago, 
when I was much such a strapping youngster as you, a man 
expected to pull between the shafts the best part of his life, 
before he got the whip in his hand. The looms went slowish, 
and tashions didn't alter quite so fast : I'd a best suit that 
lasted me six years. Everything was on a lower sdale, sir — 
in point of expenditure, I mean. It's this steam, you see, that 
has made the difference : it drives on every wheel double pace, 
and the wheel of fortune along with 'em, as our Mr. Stephen 
Guest said at the anniversary dinner (he hits these things off 
wonderfully, considering he's seen nothing of business), I 
don't find faidt with the change, as some people do. Trade, 
sir, opens a man's eyes ; and if the population is to get thicker 
upon the ground, as it's doing, the world must use its wits at 
inventions of one sort or other. I know I've done my share 
as an ordinary man of business. Somebody has said it's a fine 
thing to make two ears of com grow where only one grew 
before ; but, sir, it's a fine thing, too, to further the exchange 
of commodities, and bring the grains of com to the mouths 
that are hungry. And that's our line of business ; and I con- 
sider it as honorable a position as a man can holdi, to be con- 
nected with it." 

Tom knew that the affair his uncle had to speak of was not 
urgent ; Mr. Deane was too shrewd and practical a man to 
allow either his reminiscences or his snuff to impede the pro> 



850 THE MILL ON THX TLOBB. 

gress of trade. Indeed, for the last month or two, there had 
been hmts thrown out to Tom which enabled hiVn to guess 
that he was going to hear some proposition for his own benefit. 
With the beginning of the last speech he had stretched ont 
his legs, thrust his hands in hb pockets, and prepared himself 
for some introductoiy diffuseness, tending to show that Mr. 
Deane had succeeded by his own merit, and that what he had 
to say to young men in general was, that if they didn't 
succeed too, it was because of their own demerit. He was 
rather surprised, then, when his uncle put a direct question 
to him. 

" Let me see — ^it's going on for seven years now eince yon 
applied to me for a situation— eh, Tom ?" 

" Yes, sir ; I'm three-and-twenty now," said Tom. 

" Ah — ^it's as well not to say that, though ; for you'd pass 
for a good deal older, and age tells well in business. I remem- 
ber your coming very weu: I remember I saw there was 
some pluck in you, and that was what made me give you 
encouragement. And I'm happy to say, I was right — ^I'm not 
often deceived. I was naturally a little shy at pushing my 
nephew, but I'm happy to say you've done me credit, sir; 
and if I'd a son o' my own, I shouldn't have been sorry to see 
him like you." 

Mr. Deane tapped his box and opened it agwn, repeating in 
a tone of some feeling — " No, I shouldn't have been sorry to 
see him like you." 

" I'm very glad I've given you satisfaction, sir ; I've done 
my best," said Tom, in his proud, independent way. 

" Yes, Tom, you've given me satisfaction. I don't speak 
of your conduct as a son ; though that weighs with me in my 
opinion of you. But what I have to do with, as a partner in 
our firm, is the qualities you've shown as a man o' business. 
Ours is a fine business — a splendid concern, sir — and there's 
no reason why it shouldn't go on growing : there's a growing 
capital, and growing outlets for it ; but there's another thing 
that's wanted for the prosperity of every concern, large or 
small, and that's men to conduct it — men of the right habits ; 
none o' your flashy fellows, but such as are to be depended 
on. Now this is what Mr. Guest and I see clear enough. 
Three years ago, we took Gell into the concern : we gave 
him a share in the oil-mill. And why ?. Why, because Gell 
was a fellow whose services were worth a premium. So it 
will always be, sir. So it was with me. And though Gell is 
pretty near ten years older than you, there are other points 
m your favor." 

Tom was getting a little nervous as Mr. Deane went on 



THB MILL OK THE FLOSS. 851 

speaking : he was conscious of something he had in his mind 
to say, which might not be agreeable to his uncle, simply 
because it was a new suggestion rather than an acceptance of 
the proposition he foresaw. 

" It stands to reason," Mr. Deane went on, when he had 
finished his new pinch, " that your being my nephew weighs 
in your favor ; but I don't deny that if you'd been no relation 
of mine at all, your conduct in that affair of Pelley's bank 
would have led Mr. Guest and myself to make some acknow- 
ledgment of the service you've been to us ; and, backed by 
your general conduct and business ability, it has made us 
determine on giving you a share in the business — a share 
which we shall be glad to increase as the years go on. We 
think that'll be better, on all grounds, than raising your 
salary. It'll give you more importance, and prepare you 
better for taking some of the anxiety off my snoulders by- 
and-by. I'm equal to a good deal o' work at present, thank 
God ; but I'm getting older — there's no denying that. I told 
Mr. Guest I would open the subject to you ; and when you 
come back from this northern business, we can go into par- 
ticulars. This is a great stride for a young fellow of three- 
and-twenty, but I'm bound to say, you've deserved it." 

" I'm very grateful to Mr. Guest and you, sir ; of course, I 
feel the most indebted to you^ who first took me into the 
business, and have taken a good deal of pains with me since." 

Tom spoke with a slight tremor, and paused after he had 
said this. 

" Yes, yes," said Mr. Deane. " I don't spare pains when I 
see they'll be of any use. I gave myself some trouble with 
Gell — else he wouldn't have been what he is." 

" But there's one thing I should like to mention to you, 
uncle. I've never spoken to you of it before. If you remem- 
ber, at the time my father's property was sold, there was 
some thought of your firm buying the Mill : I know you 
thought it would be a very good investment, especially if steam 
were applied." 

" To be sure, to be sure. But Wakem outbid us — ^he'd made 
up his mind to that. He's rather fond of carrying everything 
over other people's heads." 

" Perhaps it's of no use my mentioning it at present," Tom 
went on, " but I wish you to know what I have in my mind 
about the Mill. I've a strong feeling about it. It was my 
father's dying wish that I. should try and get it back again 
whenever I could : it was in his family for five generations. I 
promised my father ; and besides that, I'm attached to the 
place. I shall never like any other so well. And if it should 



858 THB mix OK THE FLOSS. 

erer sait yonr views to buy it for the firm, I should haye a 
better chance of fulfilling my father's wish. I shonldnt have 
liked to mention the thing to you, only you've been kind 
enough to say my services have been of some value. And Td 
give up a much^eater chance in life for the sake of having 
the Mm again — ^1 mean, having it in my own hands, and gra- 
doally working off the price." 

Mr. Deane. had listened attentively, and now looked 
thoughtful. 

" Isee, I see," he said, after a while ; " the thing would be 
possible, if there were any chance of Wakem's parting with 
the property. But that 1 donH see. He's put that young 
Jetsome in the place ; and he had his reasons when he bought 
it, I'll be bound." 

" He's a loose fish, that young Jetsome," said Tom. " He's 
taking to drinking, and they say he's letting the business so 
down. Luke told me about it— our old miUer. He says, he 
shan't stay unless there's an alteration. I was thinking, if 
things went on in that may, Wakem might be more willing to 
part with the Mill. Luke says he's getting very sour about 
the way things are going on." 

"Well, rU turn it over, Tom. I must inquire into the 
matter, and go into it with Mr. Guest. But you see, it's 
rather striking out a new branch, and putting you to that, 
instead of keeping you where you are, which was what we'd 
wanted." 

" I should be able to manage more than the mill when things 
were once set properly going, sir. I want to have plenty of 
work. There's nothing else I care about much." 

There was something rather sad in that speech from a young 
man of three-and-twenty, even in uncle Deane's business-loving 
ears. 

" Pooh, pooh ! you'll be having a wife to care about one of 
these days, if you get on at this pace in the world. But as to 
this Mill, we mustn't reckon on our chickens to early. How- 
ever, I promise you to bear it in mind, and when you come 
back, we'll talk of it again. I am going to dinner now. Come 
and breakfast with us to morrow morning and say good-by to 
your mother and sister before you start." 



CHAPTER VI. 

nXUSTBATINa THE ULWS OP ATTRACTION. 

It is evident to you now, that Maggie had arrived at a 
moment in her life which must be considered by all prudent 
persons as a great opportunity for a young woman. Launched 
mto the higher society of St. Ogg's, with a striking person 
which had the advantage of bemg quite unfamiliar to the 
majority of beholders, and with such moderate assistance of 
costume as you have seen foreshadowed in Lucy's anxious 
colloquy with aunt Pullet, Maggie was certainly at a new 
starting-point in life. At Lucy's first evening-party, young 
Torry Sitigued his facial muscles more than usual in order that 
** the dark-eyed girl there, in the comer," might see him in 
all the additional style conferred by his ey«-glass ; and several 
young ladies went home intending to have short sleeves with 
black lace, and to plait their hair in a broad coronet at the 
back of their head — " That cousin of Miss Deane's looked so 
very well." In fact, poor Maggie, with all her inward con- 
sciousness of a painful past and her presentiment of a trou- 
blous future, was on the way to become an object of some envy 
— a topic of discussion in the newly-established billiard-room, 
and between fair friends who had no secrets from each other 
on the subject of tiimmings. The Miss Guests, who associated 
chiefly on terms of condescension with the families of St. Ogg's, 
and were the glass of fashion there, took some exception to 
Maggie's manners. She had a way of not assenting at once 
to the observations current in good society, and of saying 
that she didn't know whether those observations were true 
or not, which gave her an air of gauch&rie^ and impeded the 
even flow of conversation ; but it is a fact capable of an ami- 
able interpretation, that ladies are not the worse disposed 
towards a new acquaintance of their own sex because she has 
points of inferiority. And Maggie was so entirely without 
those pretty airs of coquetry wmch have the traditional repu- 
tation of driving gentlemen to despair, that she won some 
feminine pity for being so ineffective in spite of her beauty. 
She had not had many advantages, poor thing ! and it must 
be admitted there was no pretension about her : her abrupt- 
ness and unevenness of manner were plainly the result of her 



354 THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 

secladed and lowly circumstances. It was only a wonder that 
there was no tinge of vulgarity about her, considering what 
the rest of poor Lucy's relations were: an allusion which 
always made the Miss Guests shudder a little. It was not 
agreeable to think of any connexion by marriage with sudi 
people as the Gleggs and the Pullets ; but it was of no use 
to contradict Stephen, when once he had set his mind on any- 
thing, and certainly there was no possible objection to Lucy 
in herself— no one could help liking her. She would naturally 
desire that the Miss Guests should behave kindly to this 
cousin of whom she was so fond, and Stephen would make a 
great fuss if they were deficient in civility. Under these 
circumstances the invitations to Park House were not want- 
ing ; and elsewhere, also, Miss Deane was too popular and too 
dbtinguished a member of society in St. Ogg's for any atten- 
tion towards her to be neglected. 

Thus Maggie was introduced for the first time to the young 
lady's life, and knew what it was to get up in the morning 
without any imperative reason for doing one thing more than 
another. This new sense of leisure and unchecked enjoyment 
amidst the sofl-breathing airs and garden-scents of advancing 
spring, — amidst the new abundance of music, and lingering 
strolls in the sunshine, and delicious dreaminess of glidmg on 
the river, — could hardly be without some intoxicating effect 
on her, after her years of privation ; and even in the first week 
Maggie began to be less haunted by her sad memories and 
anticipations. Life was certainly very pleasant just now: it 
was becoming very pleasant to dress in the evening, and to 
feel that she was one of the beautiful things of this spring- 
time. And there were admiring eyes always awaiting her 
now ; she was no longer an unheeded person, liable to be chid, 
from whom attention was continually claimed, and on whom 
no one felt bound to confer any. It was pleasant, too, when 
Stephen and Lucy were gone out riding, to sit down at the 
piano alone, and find that the old fitness between her fingers 
and the keys remained, and revived, like a sympathetic kin- 
ship not to be worn out by separation — ^to get the tunes she 
had heard the evening before, and repeat them again and 
again until she had found out a way of producing them so as 
to make them a more pregnant, passionate language to her. 
The mere concord of octaves was a delight to Maggie, and 
she would often take up a book of studies rather than any 
melody, that she might taste more keenly by abstraction the 
more primitive sensation of intervals. Not that her enjoy- 
ment of music was of the kind that indicates a great specific 
talent; it was rather that her sensibihty to the supreme 



r 



THB MILL ON THB FLOSS. • 365 ' 

ixcitement of music was only one form of tbat passionate 
sensibility which belonged to her whole nature, and made 
her faults and virtues all merge in each other — made her 
.ffections sometimes an impatient demand, but also prevented . 
^r vanity from taking the form of mere feminine coquetry j 
\d device, and gave it the poetry of ambition. But you / 
ive known Maggie a long while, and need to be told, not 
her characteristics, but her history, which is a thing hardly 
to be predicted even from the completest knowledge of cha- 
racteristics. For the tragedy of our lives is not created 
entirely from within. " Character," says Novalis, in one of 
his questionable aphorisms — " character is destiny." But not 
the whole of our destiny. Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, was ' 
speculative and irresolute, and we have a great tragedy in 
consequence. But if his father had lived to a good old age, 
and his uncle had died an early death, we can conceive Ham- 
let's having married Ophelia, and got through life with a 
reputation of sanity notwithstanding many soliloquies, and 
some moody sarcasms towards the fair daughter of JPolonius, 
to say nothing of the frankest incivility to his father-in-law. 

Maggie's destiny, then, is at present hidden, and we must 
wait for it to reveal itself like the course of an immapped 
river : we only know that the river is full and rapid, and that 
for all rivers there is the same final home. Under the charm 
of her new pleasures, Maggie herself was ceasing to think, 
with her eager prefiguring imagination, of her fiiture lot ; 
and her anxiety about her first interview with Philip was 
losiDg its predominance : perhaps, unconsciously to herseL^ she 
was not sorry that the interview had been deferred. 

For Philip had not come the evening he was expected, and 
Mr. Stephen Guest brought word that he was gone to the 
coast — probably, he thought, on a sketching expedition ; but 
it was not certain when he would return. It was just like 
Philip— to go off in that way without telling any one. It was 
not until the twelfth day that he returned, to find both Lucy's 
notes awaiting him : he had left before he knew of Maggie's 
arrival. 

Perhaps one had need be nineteen again to be quite con- 
vinced of the feelings that were crowded for Maggie into 
those twelve days — of the length to which they were stretched 
for her by the novelty of her experience in them, and the 
varying attitudes of her mind. The early days of an acquaint- 
ance almost always have this impoitance for us, and fill up a 
larcer space in our memory than longer subsequent ])eriod8, 
which have been less filled with discovery and new impres- 
sions. There were not many hours in those ten days in which 



I 



866 THB mix 09 THB VLOBB. 

Mr. Stephen Gkiest was not seated by Lucy's side, or stan&g 
near her at the piano, or accompanying her on some oot-door 
excursion : his attentions were clearly becoming more assiduoiis; 
and that was what every one had expected. Locy uras very 
happy : all the happier becanse Stepnen's sodety seemed to 
have become much more interesting and amosiDg since 
Maggie had been there. Playful discussions — sometimes 
serious ones — were going forward, in which both Stephen and 
Maggie revealed themselves, to the admiration of the gentle 
unobtrusive Lucy ; and it more than once crossed her mind 
what a charming quartet they should have through life when 
Maggie married Philip. Is it an inexplicable thing that a giii 
should enjoy her lover^s society the more for the presence of 
a third person, and be without the slightest spasm of jealousy 
that the third person had the conversation habitually directed 
to her ? Not when that girl is as tranquil-hearted as Lucy, 
thoroughly possessed with a belief that she knows the state 
of her companions' affections, and not prone to the feelings 
which shake such a belief in the absence of positive evidence 
against it. Besides, it was Lucy by whom Stephen sate, to 
whom he gave his arm, to whom he appealed as the person 
sure to agree with him ; and every day there was the same 
tender politeness towards her, the same consciousness of her 
wants and care to supply them. Was there really the same? 
— ^it seemed to Lucy that there was more; and it was no 
wonder that the real significance of the change escaped her. 
It was a subtle act of conscience in Stephen that even he him- 
self was not aware of. His personal attentions to Maggie 
were comparatively slight, and there had even sprung up 
an apparent distance between them, that prevented the 
renewal of that faint resemblance to gallantry into which he 
had fallen the first day in the boat. If Stephen came in 
when Lucy was out of the room — if Lucy left them together, 
they never spoke to each other : Stephen, perhaps, seemed to 
be examining books of music, and Maggie bent her head 
assiduously over her work. Each was oppressively conscious 
of the other's presence, even to the finger-ends. Yet each 
looked and longed for the same thing to happen the next day. 
Neither of them had begun to reflect on the matter, or silently 
to ask, " To what does all this tend ?" Maggie only felt that 
life was revealing something quite new to her ; and she was 
absorbed in the direct, immediate experience, without any 
energy left for taking account of it, and reasoning about it. 
Stephen wilfully abstained from self-questioning, and would 
not admit to himself that he felt an influence which was to 
have any detemnning effect oTi\i\s GoiiSL\xR\»» KTA^V^K^Ijicy 



THB MIEiL OK THE SXOS8. 357 

came into the room again, they were once more micon- 
stramed ; Maggie could contradict Stephen and laugh at him, 
and he could recommend to her consideration the example of- 
that most charming heroine, Miss Sophia Western, who had 
a great " respect for the understandings of men." Maggie 
could look at Stephen — which, for some reason or other, she 
always avoided when they were alone ; and he could even ask 
her to play his accompaniment for him, since Lucy's fingers 
were so busy with that bazaar-work ; and lecture her on hur- 
rying the tempo^ which was certainly Maggie's weak point. 

One day — ^it was the day of Philip's return — ^Lucy had 
formed a sudden engagement to spend the evening with Mrs. 
Kenn, whose delicate state of health, threatening to become 
confirmed illness through an attack of bronchitis, obliged her 
to resign her functions at the coming bazaar into the hands 
of other ladies, of whom she wished Lucy to be one. The 
engagement had been formed in Stephen's presence, and he 
had heard Lucy promise to rise early and . c^ at six o'clock 
for Miss Torry, who brought Mrs. Kenn's request. 

" Here is another of the moral results of this idiotic bazaar," 
Stephen burst forth, as soon as Miss Torry had left the room 
— " taking yoimg ladies from the duties of the domestic hearth 
into scenes of dissipation among urn-rugs and embroidered 
reticules ! I should like to know what is the proper function 
of women, if it is not to make reasons for husbands to stay at 
home, and still stronger reasons for bachelors to go out. If 
this goes on much longer, the bonds of society will be 
dissolved." 

" Well, it will not go on much longer," said Lucy, laughing, 
*' for the bazaar is to take place on Monday week." 

" Thank heaven !" said Stephen. " Kenn himself said the 
other day, that he didn't like this plan of making vanity do 
the work of charity; but just as the British public is not 
reasonable enough to bear direct taxation, so St. Ogg's has not 
got force of motive enough to build and endow sdiools with- 
out calling in the force of folly." 

"Did he say so?" said little Lucy, her hazel eyes opening 
wide with anxiety. " I never heard him say anything of that 
kind : I thought he approved of what we were doing." 

"I'm sure he approves yaw," said Stephen, smiling at her 
affectionately: "your conduct in going out to-night looks 
vicious, I own, but I know there is benevolence at the bottom 
of it." 

" Oh, you think too well of me," said Lucy, shaking her 
head, with a pretty blush, and there the subject ended* ^ BksI 
it was tacidy understood that Stephea^ox^^ xi^\» qats^\si*^s^ 



35S THB lOLL ON TEU VLOfiS. 

evening, and on the strength of that tacit understanding he 
made his morning visit the longer, not saying good-bj mitil 

after four. 

Maggie was seated in the drawing-room alone, shortly after 
dinner, with Minny on her lap, having left her nncle to his 
wine and his nap, and her mother to the compromise between 
knitting and nodding, which, when there was no company, 
she always carried on in the dining-room till tea-time. Mag- 
gie was stooping to caress the tiny silken pet, and comforting 
him for his mistress's absence, when the sound of a footstep 
on the gravel made her look up, and she saw Mr. Stephai 
Gnest walking up the garden, as if he had come straight from 
the river, ft was very unusual to see him sd soon afto 
dinner ! He often complained that their dinner-hour was late 
at Park House. " Nevertheless, there he was, in his black 
dress : he had evidently been home, and must have come again 
by the river. Maggie felt her cheeks glowing and her heart 
beating : it was natural she should be nervous, for she was not 
accustomed to receive visitors alone. He had seen her look 
up through the open window, and raised his hat as he walked 
towards it, to enter that way instead of by the door. He 
blushed too, and certainly looked as foolish as a young man 
of some wit and self-possession can be expected to look, as he 
walked in with a roll of music in his hand, and said with an 
air of hesitating improvisation — 

" You are surprised to see me again. Miss Tulliver — ^I ought 
to apologise for coming upon you by surprise, but I wanted 
to come into the town, and I got our man to row me; so I 
thought I would bring these things from the *Maid of Artois' 
for your cousin : I forgot them this morning. Will you give 
them to her ?" 

" Yes," said Maggie, who had risen confusedly with Minny 
in her arms, and now, not quite knowing what else to do, sat 
down again. 

Stephen laid down his hat, with the music, which rolled on 
the floor, and sat down in the chair close by her. He had 
never done so before, and both he and Maggie were quite 
aware that it was an entirely new position. 

" Well, you pampered minion !" said Stephen, leaning to 
pull the long curly ears that drooped over Maggie's arm. It 
was not a suggestive remark, and as the speaker did not 
follow it up by further development, it naturally left the con- 
versation at a stand-still. It seemed to Stephen like some 
action in a dream, that he was obliged to do, and wonder at 
himself all the while — ^to go on stroking Minny's head. Yet 
it w&a very pleasant : lie oTv\y V\^^^ \i^ ^^ax^^ V^k at Mag- 



s 



THB HILL ON THE FLOSS. 359 

e, and that she would look at him, — ^let him have one long 
ook into those deep strange eyes of hers, and then he would 
be satisfied, and quite reasonable after that. He thought it 
was becoming a sort of monomania with him, to want that 
long look from Maggie; and he was racking his invention 
continually to find out some means by which he could have it 
without its appearing singular and entailing subsequent 
embarrassment. As for Maggie, she had no distinct thought 
—only the sense of a presence like that of a closely-hovenng 
broad- winged bird in the darkness, for she was unable to look 
up, and saw nothing but Minny's black wavy coat. 

But this must end some time — ^perhaps it ended very soon, 
and only seemed long, as a minute's dream does. Stephen 
at last sat upright sideways in his chair, leaning one hand 
and arm over the back and looking at Maggie. What should 
he say ? 

" We shall have a splendid sunset, I think ; shan't you go 
out and see it ?" 

" I don't know," said Maggie. Then, courageously raising 
her eyes and looking out of the window, " If I'm not play- 
ing cribbage with my uncle." 

A pause : during which Minny is stroked again, but has 
sufficient insight not to be grateful for it-to gr^wl rather. 

" Do you like sitting alone ?" 

A rather arch look came over Maggie's face, and, just 
glancing at Stephen, she said, " Would it be quite civil to 
say *yes'?" 

"It was rather a dangerous question for an intruder to 
ask," said Stephen, delighted with that glance, and getting 
determined to stay for another. " But you will have more 
than half an hour to yourself after I am gone," he added, 
taking out his watch. " I know Mr. Deane never comes in 
till half-past seven." 

Another pause, during which Maggie looked steadily out 
of the window, till by a great effort she moved her head to 
look down at Minny's back again, and said — 

"I wish Lucy had not been obliged to go out. We lose 
our music." 

"We shall have a new voice to-morrow night," said 
Stephen. " Will you tell your cousin that our friend Philip 
Wakem is come back ? I saw him as I went home." 

Maggie gave a little start — ^it seemed hardly more than a 
vibration that passed from head to foot in an instant. But 
the new images summoned by Philip's name, dispersed half 
the oppressive spell she had been under. She rose ftoxs^l^^ 
chair with a sudden resolution, aud^ Aa^Vxi^ ^tfikcus^ ^^i ^^ 



800 THE MILL ON THE JliOflS. 

cushion, went to reach Lucy^s lar^e work-basket from its 
comer. Stephen was vexed and disappointed : he thought, 
perhaps Mag^e didn't like the name of Wakem to be men- 
tioned to her in that abrupt way — ^for he now recced what 
Lucy had told him of the &mily quarrel. It was of no use 
to stay any longer. Maggie was seating herself at the table 
with her work, and looking chill and proud; and he — ^he 
looked like a simpleton for having come. A gratuitous, 
entirely superfluous visit of that sort was sure to make a man 
disagreeable and ridiculous. Of course it was palpable to 
Maggie's thinking, that he had dined hastily in his own room 
for the sake of setting off again and finding her alone. 

A boyish state of mind for an accomplished young gentle- 
man of five-and-twenty, not without le^al knowledge ! But 
a reference to history, perhaps, may ms^e it not incredible. 

At this moment Maggie's ball of knitting-wool rolled along 
the ground, and she started up to reach it. Stephen rose too, 
and, picking up the ball, met her with a vexed complaining 
look that gave his eyes quite a new expression to Maggie, 
whose own eyes met them as he presented the ball to her. 

"Good-by," said Stephen, in a tone that had the same 
beseeching discontent as his eyes. He dared not put out his 
hand — ^he thrust both hands into his tail-pockets as he spoke. 
Maggie thought she had perhaps been rude. 

" Won't you stay ?" she said timidly, not looking away, 
for that would have seemed rude again. 

" No, thank you," said Stephen, looking still into the half- 
unwilling, half-fascinating eyes, as a thirsty man looks 
towards the track of the distant brook. " The boat is wait- 
ing for me, .... You'll tell your cousin ?" 

" Yes." 

" That I brought the music, I mean.'* 

" Yes." 

" And that Philip is come back." 

" Yes." (Maggie did not notice Philip's name this time.) 

" Won't you come out a little way into the garden ?" said 
Stephen, in a still gentler tone, but the next moment he was 
vexed that she did not say, " No," for she moved away now 
towards the open window, and he was obliged to take his hat 
and walk by her side. But he thought of something to make 
him amends. 

" Do take my arm," he said, in a low tone, as if it were a 
secret. 

There is something strangely winning to most women in 

that offer of the firm arm : the help is not wanted physically 

Bt that moment, but t\iQ ^en&^ oi V*^"^— \.\!a presence c^ 



THE HILL ON THS FLOSS. 301 

strength that is outside them and yet theirs, meets a con« 
tinual want of the imagination. Either on that gromid or 
some other, Maggie took the arm. And they walked 
together round the grass-plot and under the drooping green 
of the laburnums, in the same dim dreamy state as they had 
been in a quarter of an hour before ; only that Stephen had 
had the look he longed for, without yet perceiving in himself 
the symptoms of returning reasonableness, and Maggie had 
darting thoughts across the dimness : — ^how came she to be 
there? — why had she come out? Not a word was spoken« 
If it had been, each would have been less intensely conscious 
of the other. 

" Take care of this step," said Stephen, at last. 

" Oh, I will go in now," said Maggie, feeling that the step 
had come like a rescue. " Good evening." 

In an instant she had withdrawn her arm, and was running 
back to the house. She did not reflect that this sudden action 
would only add to the embarrassing recollections of the last 
half hour. She had no thought left for that. She only threw 
herself into the low armchair, and burst into tears. 

"Oh Philip, Philip, I wish we were together again — so 
quietly — ^in the Red Deeps." 

Stephen looked after her a moment, then went on to the 
boat, and was soon landed at the wharf. He spent the even- 
ing in the billiard-room, smoking one cigar after another, and 
losing " lives " at pool. But he would not leave off. He was 
determined not to think — ^not to admit any more distinct 
remembrance than was urged upon him by the perpetual 
presence of Maggie. He was looking at her, and she was on 
his arm. 

But there came the necessity of walking home in the cool 
starlight, and with it the necessity of cursing his own folly, 
and bitterly determining that he would never trust himself 
alone with Maggie again. It was all madness: he was in 
love, thoroughly attadied to Lucy, and engaged — engaged as 
strongly as an honorable man need be. He wished he had 
never seen this Maggie Tulliver, to be thrown into a fever by 
her in this way : she would make a sweet, strange, trouble- 
some, adorable wife to some man or other, but he would never 
have chosen her himself. Did she feel as be did ? He hoped 
she did — ^not. He ought not to have gone. He would master 
himself in future. He would make himself disagreeable to 
her — quarrel with her perhaps. Quarrel with her ? Was it 
possible to quarrel with a creature who had such eyes— -defy- 
mg and deprecating, contradicting and clinging^ im^riQ\i& 
and beseeohmg— fuU of delicious oppoeiti^^. To %a^ ^9(^s^ ^ 

a 



3(^2 ^3a MUX OS thx wlo&l 

oreatiire Bubdaed by love for one would be a lot worth hxmg 
— ^to another man. 

Hiere was a muttered exclamation which ended this inward 
soliloquy, as Stephen threw away the end of his last c%ar, 
and thrusting his hands into his pockets, stalked along at a 
Quieter pace through the shrubbery. It was not of a bene- 
aictory land. ^ 



CHAPTER Vn. 

PHILIP BB-SMTXaS. 



Thb next morning was very wet : the sort of morning qd 
which male neighbors who have no imperative occupation at 
home, are likely to pay their &ir friends an illimitable visit. Hbe 
rain, which has been endurable enough for the walk or ride one 
way, is sure to become so heavy, and at the same time so certain 
to clear up by-and-by, that nothing but an open quarr^ can ab- 
breviate the visit : latent detestation will not do at alL And 
if people happen to be lovers, what can be so deUghtfii], in 
England, as a rainy morning ? English sunshine is dubious ; 
bonnets are never quite secure ; and if you sit down on the 
grass, it may lead to catarrhs. But the rain is to be depended 
on. You gallop through it in a mackintosh, and presently 
find yourself in the seat you like best — a little above or a little 
below the one on which your goddess sits (it is the same 
thing to the metaphysical mind, and that is the reason why 
women are at once worshipped and looked down upon), with 
a satis&ctory confidence that there will be no lady-callers. 

"Stephen will come earlier this morning, I know,** said 
Lucy : " he always does when it's rainy." 

Maggie made no answer. She was angry with Stephen : 
she began to think she should dislike him; and if it had not 
been for the rain, she would have gone to her aunt Glegg's 
this morning, and so have avoided him altogether. As it was, 
she must find some reason for remaining out of the room 
with her mother. 

But Stephen did not come earlier, and there was another 
visitor — a nearer neighbor — ^who preceded him. When Philip 
entered the room, he was going merely to bow to Maggie, 
feeling that their acquaintance was a secret which he was 
bound not to betray ; but when she advanced towards him and 
put out her hand, he guessed at once that Lucy had been 
taken into her confidence. lt> ^^a ^TAoxxx^TiX o^ ^^is^ «^tation 



THB MILL ON THB FLOSS. 863 

to both, though Philip had spent many hours m preparing 
for it : but like all persons who have passed through life with 
little expectation of sympathy, he seldom lost his self-control, 
and shrank with the most sensitive pride from any noticeable 
betrayal of emotion. A little extra paleness, a little tension 
of the nostril when he spoke, and the voice pitched in rather 
a higher key, that to strangers would seem expressive of cold 
indifference, were all the signs Philip usually gave of an 
inward drama that was not without its fierceness. But Mag- 
gie, who had little more power of concealing the impressions 
made upon her than if she had been constructed of musical 
strings, felt her eyes getting larger with tears as they took 
each other's hands in silence. They were not painful tears : 
they had rather something of the same origin as the tears 
women and children shed when they have found some protec- 
tion to cling to, and look back on the threatened danger. For 
Philip, who a little while ago was associated continually in 
Maggie's mind with the sense that Tom might reproach her 
with some justice, had now, in this short space, become 
a sort of outward conscience to her, that she might fly to 
for rescue and strength. Her tranquil, tender affection 
for Philip, with its root deep down in her childhood, and 
its memories of long quiet talk confirming by distinct suc- 
cessive impressions the first instinctive bias — ^the fact that in 
him the appeal was more strongly to her pity and womanly 
devotedness than to her f anity or other egoistic excitability 
of her nature, seemed now to make a sort of sacred place, a 
sanctuary where she could find refuge from an alluring influ- 
ence which the best part of herself must resist, which must 
bring horrible tumult within, wretchedness without. This 
new sense of her relation to Philip multiplied the anxious 
scruples she would otherwise have felt, lest she should over- 
step the limit of intercourse with him that Tom would sanc- 
tion ; and she put out her hand to him, and felt the tears in 
her eyes without any consciousness of an inward check. The 
scene was just what Lucy expected, and her kind heart 
delighted in bringing Philip and Maggie together again; 
though, even with all her regard for Philip, she could not 
resist the impression that her cousin Tom had some excuse 
for feeling shocked at the physical incongruity between the 
two— a prosaic person like cousin Tom, who didn't like poetry 
and. fairy tales. But she began to speak as soon as possible, 
to set them at ease. 

" This was very good and virtuous of you," she said, in her 
pretty treble, like the low conversational notes of little \ivt^^ 
" to come so soon after your arrival. An^i «j^ ''A. S&^\'iiHs^'V 



364 THS MILL ON THB FLOSS. 

will pardon you for running away in an inopportune manner, 
and giving your friends no notice. Come and sit down here," 
she went on, placing the chair that would suit him best, ^^smd 
you shall find yourself treated mercifblly." 

" You will never govern well. Miss Deane," said Philip, as 
he seated himself, " because no one will ever believe in your 
severity. People will always encourage themselves in misde- 
meanors by the certainty that you will be indulgent." 

Lucy gave some playful contradiction, but Philip did not 
hear what it was, for he had naturally turned towards Mag- 
gie, and she was looking at him with that open, affectionate 
scrutiny, which we give to a friend from whom we have been 
long separated. What a moment their parting had been! 
And Philip felt as if he were only in the morrow of it. He 
felt this so keenly — ^with such intense, detailed remembrance 
— with such passionate revival of all that had been said and 
looked in Jheir last conversation — that with that jealousy and 
distrust which in diffident natures is almost inevitably linked 
with a strong feeling, he thought he read in Maggie^s glance 
and manner the evidence of a change. The very fact that he 
feared and half expected it, would be sure to make this 
thought rush in, in the absence of positive proof to the con- 
trary. 

" I am. having a great holiday, am I not ?" said Maggie. 
" Lucy is like a fairy godmother : she has turned me from a 
drudge into a princess in no time. I do nothing but indulge 
myself all day long, and she always finds out what I want 
before I know it myself" 

" I'm sure she is the happier for having you, then,*' said 
Philip. " You must be better than a whole menagerie of pets 
to her. And you look well — ^you are benefiting by the 
change." 

Artificial conversation of this sort went on for a little while, 
till Lucy, determined to put an end to it, exclaimed, with a 
good imitation of annoyance, that she had forgotten something, 
and was quickly out of the room. 

In a moment Maggie and Philip leaned forward, and the 
hands were clasped again, with a look of sad contentment like 
that of friends who meet in the memory of recent sorrow. 

" I told my brother I wished to see you, Philip — ^I asked 
him to release me from my promise, and he consented." 

Maggie, in her impulsiveness, wanted Philip to know at once 

the position they must hold towards each other; but she 

checked herself The things that had happened since he had 

spoken of his love for her were so painful that she shrank 

from being the first to al\\xde \>o Wveoi. \v ^^^xEv&d. ^VsoLost like 



TKB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 365 

an injury towards Philip even to mention her brother — ^her 
brother who had insulted him. But he was thinking too 
entirely of her to be sensitive on any other point at that 
moment. 

" Then we can at least be friends, Maggie ? There is no- 
thing to hinder that now ? " 

" Will not your father object ? " said Maggie, withdraw- 
ing her hand. 

"I should not give you up on any ground but your own 
wish, Maggie," said Philip, coloring. " There are points on 
which I should always resist my father, as I used to tell you. 
That is one." 

" Then there is nothing to hinder our being friends, Philip 
— seeing each other and talking to each other while I am here : 
I shall soon go away again. I mean to go very soon — ^to a 
new situation." 

" Is that inevitable, Maggie ? " 

" Yes : I must not stay here long. It would unfit me for 
the life I must begin again at last. I can't live in dependence 
— ^I can't live with my brother — ^though he is very good to me. 
He would like to provide for me ; but that would be intoler- 
able to me." 

Philip was silent a few moments, and then said in that high, 
feeble voice which with him indicated the resolute suppression 
of emotion : — 

" Is there no other alternative, Maggie ? Is that life, away 
from those who love you, the only one you will allow yourself 
to look forward to ? " 

" Yes, Philip," she said, looking at him pleadinglv, as if she 
entreated him to believe that she was compelled to this course. 
" At least, as things are ; I don't know what may be in years 
to come. But I begin to think there can never come much 
happiness to me from loving : I have always had so much pain 
mingled with it* I wish I could make myself a world outside 
it, as men do." 

" Now ' you are returning to your old thought in a new 
form, Maggie — ^the thought I used to combat," said. Philip, 
with a s%ht tinge of bitterness. ** You want to find out a 
mode of renunciation that will be an escape from pain. I tell 
you again, there is no such escape possible except by pervert- 
ing or mutilating one's nature. What would become of me, 
if I tried to escape from pain ? Scorn and cynicism would be 
my only opium ; unless 1 could fell into some kind of conceited 
madness, and fancy myself a favorite of Heaven, because I am 
not a favorite with men." 

The bitterness had t^ken oiiJ ~"«w^\xi^«cx 



ZM THB MILL ON THB FL0S8. 

on. speaking: the words were evidently an outlet for some 
immediate ^Ihig of his own, as well as an answer to Maggie. 
There was a pain pressing on him at that moment. He shrank 
with proud delicacy from the faintest allusion to the words of 
loye— of plighted love that had passed between them. It 
would have seemed to him like reminding Mag^e of a promise ; 
it would have had for him something of the baseness of com- 
pulsion. He could not dwell on the fact that he himself had 
not changed ; for that too would have had the air of an 
appeal. His love for Maggie was stamped, even more than 
the rest of his experience, with the exaggerated sense that he 
was an exception — ^that she, that every one, saw him in the 
%ht of an exception. 

But Maggie was conscience-stricken. 

" Yes, Pfilip," she said with her childish contrition when he 
used to chide her, " you are right, I know. I do always think 
too much of my own feelings, and not enough of others' — ^not 
enough of yours. I had need have you always to find fiiult 
with me and teach me : so many things have come true that 
you used to tell me." 

Bffaggie was resting her elbow on the table, leaning her 
head on her hand and looking at Philip with half-penitent 
dependent affection, as she said this ; while he was returning 
her gaze with an expression that, to her consciousness, gradu- 
ally became less vague — ^became charged with a specific recol- 
lection. Had his mind flown back to something that she now 
remembered ? — something about a lover of Lucy's ? It was a 
thought that made her shudder : it gave new definiteness to 
her present position, and to the tendency of what had happened 
the evening before. She jnoved her arm from the table, urged 
to change her position by that positive physical oppression 
at the heart that sometimes accompanies a sudden mental 
pang. . 

" What is the matter, Maggie ? Has something happened ?'* 
Philip said, in inexpressible anxiety — ^his imagination being 
only too ready to weave everything that was fatal to them 
both. 

" No— nothing," said Maggie, rousing her latent will. 
Philip must not have that odious thought in his mind : she 
would banish it from her own. "Nothing," she repeated, 
" except in my own mind. You used to say I should feel the 
effect of my starved life, as you called it, and I do. I am too 
eager in my enjoyment of music and all luxuries, now they 
are com^ to me." 

She took up her work and occupied herself resolutely, while 
PhUip watched her, really m ^ox&\. ^V^\Jci«t ^^Vva^ anything 



THE MILL ON THB FLOSB. 367 

more than this general allasion in her mind. It was quite in 
Maggie's character to be agitated by vague self-reproach. 
But soon there came a violent well-known ring at the door- 
bell resounding through the house. 

" Oh, what a startling announcement !" said Maggie, quite 
mistress of herself, though not without some inward flutter. 
** I wonder where Lucy is." 

Lucy had not been deaf to the signal, and after an interval 
long enough for a few solicitous but not hurried inquides, 
fihe herself ushered Stephen in. 

" Well, old fellow," he said, going straight up to Philip and 
shaking him heartily by the hand, bowing to Maggie in pass- 
ing, " It's glorious to have you back again ; only I wish you'd 
conduct yourself* a little less like a sparrow with a residence 
on the house-top, and not go in and out constantly without 
letting the servants know. This is about the twentieth time 
I've had to scamper up those countless stairs to that painting- 
room of yours, all to no purpose, because your people thought 
you were at home. Such incidents embitter fnendship." 

" I've so few visitors — it seems hardly worth while to leave 
notice of my exits and entrances," said Philip, feeling rather 
oppressed just then by Stephen's bright strong presence and 
strong voice. 

"Are you quite well this morning. Miss Tulliver?" said 
Stephen, turning to Maggie with stiff politeness, and putting 
out his hand with the air of fulfilling a social duty. 

Maggie gave the tips of her fingers, and said, " Quite Veil, 
thank you," in a tone of proud indifference. PhHip's eyes 
were watching them keenly ; but Lucy was used to seemg 
variations in their manner to each other, and only thought 
with regret that there was some natural antipathy which 
every now and then surmounted their mutusd good wiU. 
*' Maggie is not the sort of woman Stephen admires, and she 
is irntated by something in him which she interprets as con- 
ceit," was the silent observation that accounted for everything 
to guileless Lucy. Stephen and Maggie had no sooner com- 
pleted this studied greeting, than each felt hurt by the other's 
coldness. And Stephen, while rattling on in questions to 
Philip about his recent sketching expedition, was thinking all 
the more about Maggie because he was not drawing her mto 
the conversation, as he had invariably done before. " Maggie 
and Philip are not looking happy," thought Lucy : "this first 
interview has been saddening to them." 

" I think we people who have not been galloping," she said 
to Stephen, *' are afl a little damped by the rain, Lfel-'Q&Vsa^^ 
some music. We ought to take ad.\%Q!t2k>g^ oS-Xsasro^^^^sSs!^ 



968 THB HILL ON THE FLOSS. 

and you together. Give us the duet in * Masaniello :' Maggie 
has not heard that, and I know it will suit her." 

" Come, then," said Stephen, going towards the piano, and 
^ving a foretaste of the tune in his deep "brum-brum,** very 
pleasant to hear. 

" You, please, Philip— you play the accompaniment," said 
Lucy, " and then I can go on with my work. You vku like 
to play, shan't you ?" she added, with a pretty inquiring look, 
anxious, as usual, lest she should have proposed what was not 
pleasant to another ; but with yeammgs towards her unfin* 
Mhed embroidery. 

Philip had brightened at the proposition, for there is no 
feeling, perhaps, except the extremes of fear and grie^ that 
does not find relief in music — ^that does not make a man sing 
or play the better ; and Philip had an abundance of pent-up 
feelmg at this moment, as complex as any trio or quartet that 
was ever meant to express love and jealousy, and resignation 
and fierce suspicion, all at the same time. 

" Oh yes," he said, seating himself at the piano, " it is a 
way of eking out one's imperfect life and being three people 
at once — ^to sing and make the piano sing, and hear them both 
all the while — or else to sing and paint." 

" Ah, there you are an enviable fellow. I can do nothing 
with my hands," said Stephen. " That has generally been 
observed in men of great administrative capacity, I believe. 
A tendency to predominance of the reflective powers' in 
me I — ^haven't you observed that, Miss Tulliver ?" 

Stephen had fallen by mistake into his habit of playful 
appeal to Maggie, and she could not repress the answering 
flush and epigram. 

" I have observed a tendency to predominance," she said, 
smiling ; and PhDip at that moment devoutly hoped that she 
found the tendency disagreeable. 

*' Come, come," said Lucy ; " music, music ! We will dis- 
cuss each other's qualities another time." 

Maggie always tried in vain to go on with her work when 
music began. She tried harder than ever to-day; for the 
thought that Stephen knew how much she cared for his sing- 
ing was one that no longer roused a merely playful resistance ; 
and she knew, too, that it was his habit always to stand so that 
he could look at her. But it was of no use : she soon threw her 
work down, and all her intentions werp lost in the vague 
state of emotion produced by the inspiring duet — emotion 
that seemed to make her at once strong and weak : strong 
for all enjoyment, weak for all resistance. When the strain 
passed into the minor, s\ieYia\i-sX,3ic\.^^itQt£i\!iet ^^<^mth the 



THE MILL OK THE FLOSS, 869 

sudden thrill of that change. Poor Maggie I She looked 
• very beautifiil when her soul was being played on in this way 
by the inexorable power of sound. You might have seen the 
slightest perceptible quivering through her whole frame, as 
she leaned a little forward, clasping her hands as if to steady 
herself; while her eyes dilated and brightened into that wide- 
open, childish expression of wondering delight, which always 
came back in her happiest moments. Lucy, who at other 
times had always been at the piano when Maggie, was looking 
in this way, could not resist the impulse to steal up to her 
and kiss her. Philip, too, caught a glimpse of her now and 
then round the open book on the desk, and felt that he had 
never before seen her under so strong an influence. 

"More, more!" said Lucy, when the duet had been 
encored. "Something spirited again. Maggie always says 
she likes a great rush of sound." 

" It must be ' Let us take the road,' then," said Stephen — 
" so suitable for a wet morning. But are you prepared to 
abandon the most sacred duties of life, and come and sing 
with us ?" 

" Oh yes," said Lucy, laughing. " If you will look out 
the ' Beggars' Opera ' from the large canterbury. It has a 
dingy cover." 

" That is a great clue, considering there are about a score 
covers here of rival dinginess," said Stephen, drawing out 
the canterbury. 

" Oh, play something the while, Philip," said Lucy, notic- 
ing that his fingers were wandering over the keys. " What 
is that you are railing into ? — something delicious that I don't 
know." / 

"Don't you know that?" said Philip, bringing out the 
tune more definitely. "It's from the Sonnambula — *AhI 
perch^ non posso odiarti.' I don't know the opera, but it 
appears the tenor is telling the heroine that he shall always 
love her though she may forsake him. You've heard me sing 
it to the English words, ' I love thee still.' " 

It was not quite unintentionally that Philip had wandered 
into this song, which might be an indirect expression to 
Maggie of what he could not prevail on himself to say to her 
directly. Her ears had been open to what he was saying, 
and when he began to sing, she understood the plaintive 
passion of the music. That pleading tenor had no very fine 
qualities as a voice, but it was not quite new to her : it had 
sung to her by snatches, m a subdued way, among the ^assy 
walks and hollows, and underneath the leaning ash-tree m the 
Red Deeps. There seemed to -^xowSa. \s^ '^'^ 



370 ■ THE lOLL ON THE FLOSS. 

words — did Philip mean that ? She wished she had assured 
him more distinctily in their conversation that she desired not 
to renew the hope of love between them, ovdy because it 
clashed with her mevitable circumstances. She was touched, 
not thrilled, by the song : it suggested distinct memories and 
thoughts, and brought quiet regret in the place of excite- 
ment. 

" That's the way with you tenors," said Stephen, who was 
waiting with music in his hand while Philip finished the song. 
** You demoralise the fair sex by warbling your sentimental 
love and constancy under all sorts of vile treatment. Nothing 
short of having your heads served up in a dish like that medi- 
8Bval tenor or troubadour, would prevent you from expressing 
your entire resignation. I must administer an antidote, while 
Miss Deane prepares to tear herself away from her bobbins." 

Stephen rolled out, with saucy energy — 

"* Shall I, wasting in despair, 
Die because a woman's fair?" 

and seemed to make all the air in the room alive with a new 
influence. Lucy, always proud of what Stephen did, went 
towards the piano with laughing, adminng looks at him ; and 
Maggie, in spite of her resistance to the spirit of the son^ and 
to the singer, was taken hold of and shaKen by the invisible 
influence — ^was borne along by a wave too strong for her. 

But angrily resolved not to betray herself, she seized her 
work, and went on making feilse stitches and pricking her fin- 
gers with much perseverance, not looking up or taking notice 
of what was going forward, until all the three voices united 
in " Let us take the road." 

I am afraid there would have been a subtle, stealing gratifi- 
cation in her mind if she had known how entirely this saucy, 
defiant Stephen was occupied with her : how he was passing 
rapidly from a determination to treat her with ostentatious 
indifference to an irritating desire for some sign of inclination 
from her — some interchange of subdued word or look with 
her. It was not long before he found an opportunity, when 
they had passed to the music of " The Tempest." Maggie, 
feeling the need of a footstool, was walking across the room 
to get one, when Stephen, who was not singing just then, and 
was conscious of all her movements, guessed her want, and 
flew to anticipate her, lifting the footstool with an entreating 
look at her, which made it impossible not to return a glance 
of gratitude. And then, to have the footstool placed care- 
^^y by a too self-confident personage — ^not any self-confident 
personage^ but one in paTlic\3ia.T, \mo ^vji^'i^BX:^ Vc^oka humble 



THE HILL ON THE FLOSS. 371 

and anxious, and lingers^ bending still, to ask if there is not 
some draught in that position between the window and the 
fire-place, and if he may not be allowed to move the work- 
table for her — ^these things will summon a little of the too- 
ready, traitorous tenderness into a woman's eyes, compelled 
as she is in her girlish time to learn her life-lessons in very 
trivial language. And to Maggie such things had not been 
everyday mcidents, but were a new element in her life, and 
found her keen appetite for homage quite fresh. That tone 
of gentle solicitude obliged her to look at the face that was 
bent towards her, and to say, " No, thank you ;" and nothing 
could prevent that glance from being delicious to both, as it 
had been the evening before. 

It was but an ordinary act of politeness in Stephen ; it had 
hardly taken two minutes; and Lucy, who was singing, 
scarcely noticed it. But to Philip's mind, filled already with 
a vague anxiety that was likely to find a definite ground for 
itself in any trivial incident, this sudden eagerness in Stephen, 
and the change in Maggie's fiice, which was plainly reflecting 
a beam from his, seemed so strong a contrast with the pre- 
vious overwrought signs of indifference, as to be charged with 
painful meaning. Stephen's voice, pouring in again, jarred 
upon his nervous susceptibility as if it had been the clang 
of sheet-iron, and he felt inclined to make the piano shriek in 
utter discord. He had really seen no communicable ground 
for suspecting any unusual feeling between Stephen and Mag- 
gie : his own reason told him so, and he wanted to go home 
at once that he might reflect coolly on these fiilse images, till 
he had convinced himself of their nullity. But then, again, 
he wanted to stay as long as Stephen stayed — always to be 
present when Stephen was present with Maggie. It seemed 
to poor Philip so natural, nay, inevitable, that any man who 
was near Maggie should fell in love with her I There was no 
promise of happiness for her if she were beguiled into loving 
Stephen Guest ; and this thought emboldened Philip to view 
his own love for her in the hght of a less unequal offering. 
He was beginning to play very falsely under tms deafening 
inward tumult, and Lucy was looking at him in astonishment, 
when Mrs. Tulliver's entrance to summon them to lunch ca«ie 
as an excuse for abruptly breaking off the music. 

"Ah, Mr. Philip," said Mr. Deane, when they entered the 
dining-room, "I've not seen you for a long while. Yotir 
J^ther's not at home, I think, is he ? I went after him to the 
oflice the. other day, and they said he was out of town." 

" He's been to Mudport on business for several days,** said 
Philip ; ** but he's come back now." 



! 



872 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

"As fond of his farming hobby as ever, eh ?*' 

"I believe so," said Phflip, rather wondering at this sudden 
interest in his father's pursuits. 

" Ah I" said Mr. Deane, " he's got some land in his own 
hands on this side the river as well as the other, I think ?" 

" Yes, he has." 

** Ah !" continued Mr. Deane, as he dispensed the pigeon- 
ie ; " he must find farming a heavy item — an expensive hobby. 

never had a hobby myself— never would ^ve in to that. 
And the worst of all hobbies are those that people think they 
can get money at. They shoot their money down like com 
out of a sack then." 

Lucy felt a Uttle nervous under her father's apparently gra- 
tuitous criticism of Mr. Wakem's expenditure. But it ceased 
there, and Mr. Deane became unusually silent and meditative 
during his luncheon. Lucy, accustomed to watch all indica- 
tions in her father, and having reasons, which had recently 
become strong, for an extra interest in what referred to the 
Wakems, felt an unusual curiosity to know what had 
prompted her father's questions. His subsequent silence 
made her suspect there had been some special reason for them 
in his mind. 

With this idea in her head, she resorted to her usual plan 
when she wanted to tell or ask her father anything parti- 
cular : she found a reason for her aunt Tulliver to leave the 
dining-room after dinner, and seated herself on a small stool 
at her father's knee. Mr. Deane, under those circumstances, 
considered that he tasted some of the most agreeable moments 
his merits had purchased him in life, notwithstanding that 
Lucy, disliking to have her hair powdered with snuff, usually 
began by mastering his snuff-box on such occasions. 

" You don't want to go to sleep yet, papa, do you ?" she 
said, as she brought up her stool and opened the large fingers 
that clutched the snuff-box. 

" Not yet," said Mr. Deane, glancing at the reward of merit 
in the decanter. " But what do you want ? " he added, pinch- 
ing the dimpled chin fondly. " To coax some more sovereigns 
out of my pocket for your bazaar ? Eh ? " 

" No, I have no base motives at all to-day. I only want to 
talk, not to beg. I want to know what made you ask Philip 
Wakem about his father's fiirming to-day, papa? It seemed 
rather odd, because you never hardly say anything to him 
about his father ; and why should you care about Mr. Wakem's 
losing money by his hobby ? " 

" Something to do with business," said Mr. Deane, waving 
biB bandSy as if to repel intrusvoiv. Va\,o \i\i^\> xcL^^l^rj, 



\ 



THE MILL ON THE ITiOSS. 873 

" But, papa, you always say Mr. Wakemhas brought Philip 
up like a girl : how came you to think you should get any 
business knowledge out of him ? Those abrupt questions 
sounded rather oddly. Philip thought them queer." 

" Nonsense, child I " said Mr. Deane, willing to justify his 
social demeanor, with which he had taken some pains in his 
upward progress. " There's a report that "Wakem's mill and 
farm on tha ether side of the river — ^Dorlcote Mill, your uncle 
Tulliver's, f ou know — isn't answering so well as it did. I 
wanted to see if your friend Philip would let anything out 
about his father's being tired of farming." 

" Why ? Would you buy the mill, papa, if he would part 
with it ?" said Lucy, eagerly. " Oh, tell me everything — ^here, 
you shall have your snuSbox if you'll tell me. Because Mag- 
gie says all their hearts are on Tom's getting back the null 
some time. It was one of the last things her father said to 
Tom, that he must get back the mill." 

" Hush, you little puss," said Mr. Deane, availing himself 
of the restored snuff-box. " You must not say a word about 
this thing— do you hear ? There's very little chance of their 
getting die mill, or of anybody's getting it out of Wakem's 
hands. And if he knew that we wanted it with a view to the 
Tullivers getting it again, he'd be the less likely to part with it. 
It's natural, after what happened. He behaved well enough 
to Tulliver before ; but a horse- whipping is not likely to be 
paid for with sugar-plums." 

" Now, papa," said Lucy, with a little air of solemnity, 
" will you trust me ? You must not ask me all my reasons 
for what I'm going to say — ^but I have very strong reasons. 
And I'm very cautious — I am, indeed." 

" Well, let us hear." 

" Why, I believe, if you will let me take Philip Wakem 
into our confidence — ^let me tell him all about your wish to 
buy, and what it's for — that my cousins wish to have it, and 
why they wish to have it — ^I believe Philip would help to 
bring it about. I know he would desire to do it." 

" I don't see how that can be, child," said Mr. Deane, look- 
ing puzzled. " Why should he care ?" — ^then, with a sudden 
penetrating look at his daughter, " you don't think the poor 
lad's fond of you, and so you can malce him do what you like ?" 
(Mr. Deane felt quite sure of his daughter's affections.) 

" No, papa ; he cares very little about me — ^not so much 
as I care about him. But I have a reason for being quite 
sure of what I say. Don't you ask me. And if you eve> 
guess, don't tell me. Only give me leave to do as I thinks 
about it." 



874 THB MILL ON THE IfLOSS. 

Lucy rose from her stool to seat herself on her &ther'g 
knee, and kissed him with that last request. 

" Are you sure you won't do mischief, now ?'* he said, look- 
ing at her with delight. 

" Yes, papa, quite sure. I'm very wise : I've got all your 
business talents. Didn't you admire my accompt-book, now, 
when I showed it you ? " 

" Well, well, if this youngster will keep his counsel, there 
won't be much harm done. And to tell the truth, I think 
there's not much chance for us any other way. Now, let me 
go off to sleep." 



CHAPTER Vm. 

WAKEM IN A NEW LIGHT. 



Before three days had passed after the conversation you 
have just overheard between Lucy and her father, she had 
contrived to have a private interview with Philip during a 
visit of Maggie's to her aunt Glegg. For a day and a night 
Philip turned over in his mind with restless agitation all that 
Lucy had told him in that interview, till he had thoroughly 
resolved on a course of action. He thought he saw before him 
now a possibility of altering his position with respect to Mag- 
gie, and removing at least one obstacle between them. He 
laid his plan and calculated all his moves with the fervid deli- 
beration of a chess-player in the days of his first ardor, and 
was amazed himself at his sudden genius as a tactician. His 
plan was as bold as it was thoroughly calculated. Having 
watched for a moment when his father had nothing more 
urgent on his hands than the newspaper, he went behind him, 
laid a hand on his shoulder, and said — 

" Father, will you come up into my sanctum, and look at 
my new sketches ? I've arranged them now." 

" I'm getting terribly stiff in the joints, Phil, for climbing 
those stairs of yours," said Wakem, looking kindly at his son 
as he laid down his paper. " But come along, then." 

" This is a nice place for you, isn't it, Phil ? — a capital light 
that from the roof, eh ? " was, as usual, the first thing he said 
on entering the painting-room. He liked to remind himself 
and his son too that his fatherly indulgence had provided the 
accommodation. He had been a good father. Emily would 
have nothing to reproach him with there, i£ she came back 
again from her grave. 



THE HILL ON THB FLOSS. 375 

" Come, come," he said, putting his double eye-glass over 
his nose, and seating himself to taie a general view while he 
rested, " you've got a famous show here. Upon my word, I 
don't see that your things aren't as good as that London 
artist's — what's his name — ^that Leybum gave so much money 
for." 

Philip shook his head and smiled. He had seated himself on 
his painting-stool, and had taken a lead pencil in his hand, with 
which he was making strong marks to counteract the sense 
of tremulousness. He watched his father get up, and walk 
slowly round, good-naturedly dwelling on the pictures much 
longer than his amount of genuine taste for landscape would 
have prompted, till he stopped before a stand on which two 
pictures were placed — one much larger than the other — the 
smaller one in a leather case. 

" Bless me I what have you here ? " said "Wakem, startled 
by a sudden transition from landscape to portrait. ^^ I thought 
you'd left off figures. Who are these ? " 

" They are the same person," said Philip, with calm prompt- 
ness, " at different ages." 

" And what person ? " said Wakem, sharply, fyxing his eyes 
with a growing look of suspicion on the larger picture. 

" Miss TuUiver. The small one is something like what she 
was when I was at school with her brother at King's Lorton : 
the larger one is not quite so good a likeness of what she was 
when I came from abroad." 

Wakem turned round fiercely, with a flushed face, letting 
his eye-glass fall, and looking at his son with a savage expres- 
sion for a moment, as if he was ready to strike that daring 
feebleness from the stool. But he threw himself into the 
armchair agsdn, and thrust his hands into his trouser-pockets, 
still looking angrily at his son, however. Philip did not 
return the look, but sat quietly watching the point of his 
pencil 

" And do you mean to say, then, that you have had any 
acquaintance with her since you came from abroad?" said 
Wakem, at last, with that vain effort which rage always 
makes to throw as much punishment as it desires to inflict 
into words and tones, since blows are forbidden. 

" Yes : I saw a great deal of her for a whole year before 
her father's death. We met often, in that thicket — the Red 
Deeps — ^near Dorlcote MiU. I love her dearly : I shall never 
love any other woman. I have thought of her ever since she 
was a little girl." 

^^ Go on, sir I — and you have corresponded with her all thia 
while ? " 



376 TUB MILL ON THE FLOBS. 

" No. I never told her I loved her till just before we 
parted, and she promised her brother not to see me again or 
to correspond with me. I am not sure that she loves me, or 
would consent to marry me. But if she would consent — ^if 
she did love me well enough — I should marry her." 

" And this is the return you make me for all the indul- 
gences I've heaped on you?" said Wakem, getting white, 
and beginning to tremble under an enraged sense of impo- 
tence before Philip's calm defiance and concentration of pur- 
pose. 

" No, fether," said Philip, looking up at him for the first 
time. " I don't regard it as a return. You have been an 
indulgent fiither to me ; but I have always felt that it was 
because you had an affectionate wish to give me as much hap- 
piness as my unfortunate lot would admit of — ^not that it was 
a debt you expected me to pay by sacrificing all my chances 
of happiness to satisfy feelings of yours, which I can never 
share." 

^^ I think most sons would share their father's feelings in 
this case," said "Wakem, bitterly. " The girl's fiither was an 
ignorant mad brute, who was within an inch of murdering 
me. The whole town knows it. And the brother is just as 
insolent, only in a cooler way. He forbade her seeing you, 
you say ; he'll break every bone in your body, for your 
greater happiness, if you don't take care. But you seem to 
have made up your mind : you have counted the consequences, 
I suppose. Of course you are independent of me : you can 
marry this girl to-morrow, if you like : you are a man of five- 
and-twenty — ^you can go your way, and I can go mine. We 
need have no more to do with each other." 

Wakem rose and walked towards the door, but something 
held him back, and instead of leaving the room, he walked 
up and down it. Philip was slow in reply, and when he 
spoke, his tone had a more incisive quietness and clearness 
than ever. 

" No : I can't marry Miss Tulliver, even if she would have 
me — if I have only my own resources to maintain her with. 
I have been brought up to no profession. I can't offer her 
poverty as well as deformity." 

" Ah, there is a reason for your clinging to me, doubtless," 
said Wakem, still bitterly, though Philip's last words had 
given him a pang : they had stirred a feeling which had been 
a habit for a quarter of a century. He threw himself into 
the chair again. 

'^ I expected all this,'' said PhiKp. " I know these scenes 
are ofien happening tetweein isiX^i^t «ji^ ^oti. '^ 1 Nirere like 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 877 

Other men of my age, I might answer your angry words by 
still angrier — ^we might part — ^I should marry the woman I 
love, and have a chance of being as happy as the rest. But 
if it will be a satisfaction to you to annihilate the very object 
of everything you've done for me, you have an advantage 
over most fathers : you can completely deprive me of the only 
thing that would make my life worth having." 

Philip paused, but his lather was silent. 

" You know best what satisfaction you would have, beyond 
that of gratifying a ridiculous rancor worthy only of wan- 
dering savages." 

" Ridiculous rancor I " "Wakem burst out. " What do you 
mean ? Damn it I is a man to be horsewhipped by a boor 
and love him for it ? Besides, there's that cold, proud devil 
of a son, who said a word t« me I shall not forget when we 
had the settling. He would be as pleasant a mark for a bullet 
as I know — ^if he were worth the expense." 

" I don't mean your resentment towards them," said Philip, 
who had his reasons for some sympathy with this view of 
Tom, " though a feeling of revenge is not worth much, that 
you should care to keep it. I mean your extending the 
enmity to a helpless girl, who has too much sense and good- 
ness to share their narrow prejudices. She has never entered 
into the family quarrels." • 

" What does that signify ? We don't ask what a woman 
does — we ask whom she belongs to. It's altogether a de- 
^ading thing to you — ^to think of marrying old TuUiver's 
daughter." 

For the first time in the dialogue, Philip lost some of his 
self-control, and colored with anger. 

" Miss Tulliver," he said, with bitter incisiveness, " has the 
only grounds of rank that anything but vulgar folly can sup- 
pose to belong to the middle class : she is thoroughly refined, 
and her friends, whatever else they may be, are respected for 
irreproachable honor and integrity. All St. Ogg's, I fancy, 
would pronounce her to be more than my equal." 

Wakem darted a glance of fierce question at his son ; but 
Philip was not looking at him, and with a certain penitent 
consciousness went on, in a few moments, as if in amplification 
of his last words — 

" Find a single person in St. Ogg's who will not tell you 
that a beautiful creature like her would be throwing herself 
away on a pitiable object like me." 

"Not she I" said Wakem, rising again, and forgetting 
everything else in a burst of resentful pride, half fatherly, half 
personal. " It would be a deuced fei^ TaaXdsifet V«t. ^S%^S^ 



378 THB MILL ON THE IfLOSS. 

Staff about an acddental deformity, when a girl's really 
attached to a man." 

^^ But girls are not apt to get attached under those drcum- 
stances," said Philip. 

"Well, then,'* said "Wakem, rather brutally, trying to 
recover his previous position, " if she doesn't care for you, 
you might have spared yourself the trouble of talking to 
me about her — and you might have spared me the trouble 
of refusing my consent to what was never likely to hap- 
pen." 

Wakem strode to the door, and, without looking round 
ag^, banged it after him. 

Philip was not without confidence that his father would be 
ultimately wrought upon as he had expected, by what had 
passed ; but the scene had jarred upon his nerves, which were 
as sensitive as a woman's. He determined not to go down to 
dinner : he couldii't meet his father again that day. It was 
Wakem's habit, when he had no company at home, to go out 
in the evening — often as early . as hal^past seven ; and as it 
was fkr on in the afternoon now, Philip locked up his room 
and went out for a long ramble, thinking he would not return 
until his father was out of the house agsdn. He got into a 
boat, and went down the river to a favorite viUa^e, where he 
dined, and lingered till it was late enough for him to return. 
He had never had any sort of quarrel with his father before, 
and had a sickening fear that this contest, just begun, might 
go on for weeks — and what might not happen in that time ? He 
would not allow himself to define what that involuntary ques- 
tion meant. But if he could once be in the position of Maggie's 
accepted, acknowledged lover, there would be less room for 
vague dread. He went up to his painting-room again, and 
threw himself, with a sense of fatigue, into the armchair, look- 
ing round absently at the views of water and rock that were 
ranged around, till he fell Luto a doze, in which he fancied 
Maggie was slipping down a glistening, green, slimy channel 
of a waterfall, and he was looking on helpless, till he was 
awakened by what seemed a sudden, awful crash. 

It was the opening of the door, and he could hardly have 
dozed more than a few moments, for there was no perceptible 
change in the evening light. It was his father who entered ; 
and when Philip moved to vacate the chair for him, he said — 

" Sit still. I'd rather walk about." 

He stalked up and down the room once or twice, and then 
standing opposite Philip, with his hand thrust in his side- 
pockets, he said, as if continuing a conversation that had not 
been broken off — 



THB MILL ON THB FLOSS. 879 

" But this girl seems to bave been fond of yon, Phil, else 
she wouldn't bave met you in that way." 

Philip's heart was beating rapidly, and a transient flush 
passed over his face like a gleam. It was not quite easy to 
speak at once. 

^^ She liked me at King's Lorton, when she was a little girl, 
because I used to sit wim her brother a great deal when he 
had hurt his foot. She had kept that in her memory, and 
thought of me as a friend of a long while ago. She didn't 
think of me as a lover, when she met me." 

" Well, but you made love to her at last. What did she 
say then ?" said Wakem, walking about again. 

" She said she did love me then." 

" Confound it, then, what else do you want ? Is she a jilt?" 

"She was very young then," said Philip, hesitatingly. 
" I'm afraid she hardly knew what she felt. I'm afraid our 
long separation, and the idea that events must always divide 
us, may have made a difference." 

" But she's in the town. I've seen her at church. Haven't 
you spoken to her since you came back ?" 

" 1 es, at Mr. Deane's. But I couldn't renew my proposals 
to her on several grounds. One obstacle would be removed 
if you would give your consent — ^if you would be willing to 
think of her as a daughter-in-law." 

Wakem was silent a little while, pausing before Maggie's 
picture. 

" She's not the sort of woman your mother was, though, 
Phil," he said at last. " I saw her at church — she's handsomer 
than this — deuced fine eyes and fine figure, I saw ; but rather 
dangerous and unmanageable, eh ? " 

" She's very tender and affectionate ; and so simple — ^with- 
out the airs and petty contrivances other women have." 

"Ah?" said Wakem. Then looking round at his son, 
" But your mother looked gentler : she had that brown wavy 
hair and grey eyes, like yours. You can't remember her very 
well. It was a thousand pities I'd no likeness of her." 

" Then shouldn't you be glad for me to have the same sort 
of happiness, father — ^to sweeten my life for me ? There can 
never be another tie so strong to you as that which began 
eight-and-twenty years ago, when you married my mother, 
and you have been tightening it ever since." 

" Ay, Phil — you're the only fellow that knows the best of 
me," said Wakem, giving his hand to his son. " We must 
keep together, if we can. And now, what am I to do ? You 
must come down-stairs and tell me. Am I to go and call on 
this dark-eyed damsel ? " 



880 THB MILL ON THE IXOSS. 

The barrier once thrown down m this way, Philip coold 
talk freely to his father of their entire relation with the Tulli- 
yers — of the desire to get the mill and land back into the 
family — ^and of its transfer to Guest & Co. as an intermediate 
step. He could venture now to be persuasive and urgent, and • 
his Either yielded with more readiness than he had calculated 
on. 

"Z don't care about the mill," he said at last, with a sort of 
angry compliance. " I've had an infernal deal of bother lately 
about the mill. Let them pay me for my improvements, that's 
alL But there's one thing you needn't ask me. I shall have 
no direct transactions with young Tulliver. K you like to 
swallow him, for his sister's sake, you may ; but Tve no sauce 
that will make him go down." 

I leave you to ima^ie the agreeable feelings with which 
Philip went to Mr. Deane the next day, to say that Mr. 
Wakem was ready to open the negotiations, and Lucy's pretty 
triumph as she appealed to her father whether she had not 
proved her great business abilities. Mr. Deane was rather 
puzzled, and suspected that there had been something ^^ going 
on " among the young people to which he wanted a clue. 
But to men of Mr. Deane's stamp, what goes on among the 
young people is as extraneous to the real business of life as 
what goes on among the birds and butterflies — ^until it can be 
shown to have a malign bearing on monetary aflairs. And in 
this case the bearing appeared to be entirely propitious. 



CHAPTER IX. 

CHARITY IN FULL-DRESS. 



The culmination of Maggie's career as an admired member 
of society in St. Ogg's was certainly the day of the bazaar, 
when her simple noble beauty, clad in a white muslin of some 
soft-floating kind, which I suspect must have come jfrom the 
stores of aunt Pullet's wardrobe, appeared with marked dis- 
tinction among the more adorned and conventional women 
around her. We perhaps never detect how much of our social 
demeanor is made up of artificial airs, until we see a person 
who is at once beautiful and simple : without the beauty, we 
are apt to call simplicity awkwardness. The Miss Guests 
were much too well-bred to have any of the grimaces and 
affected tones that belong to pretentious vulgarity ; but their 
s^ aext to the one V^et^^«i.^^'&^'a»V^^^^'a^^tiewly 



THB MILL ON THB FLOSS. 881 

obvious to-day that Miss Guest held her chin too high, and 
that Miss Laura spoke and moved continually with a view to 
effect. 

All well-drest St. Ogg's and its neighborhood were there ; 
and it would have been worth while to come, even from a 
distance, to see the fine old hall, with its open roof and carved 
oaken rafbers, and great oaken folding-doors, and light shed 
down from a height on the many-colored show beneath: a 
very quaint place, with broad faded stripes painted on the 
walls, and here and there a show of heraldic animals of a 
bristly, long-snouted character, the cherished emblems of a 
noble family once the seigniors of this now civic hall. A 
grand arch, cut in the upper wall at one end, surmounted an 
oaken orchestra, with an open room behind it, where hot- 
house plants and stalls for refreshments were disposed: an 
agreeable resort for gentlemen disposed to loiter, and yet to 
exchange the occasional crush down below for a more commo- 
dious point of view. In fact, the perfect fitness of this ancient 
building for an admirable modern purpose, that made charity 
truly elegant, and led through vanity up to the supply of a 
deficit, was so striking that hardly a person entered the room 
without exchanging the remark more than once. Near the 
great arch over the orchestra was the stone oriel with painted 
glass, which was one of the venerable inconsistencies of the 
old hall ; and it was close by this that Lucy had her stall, for 
the convenience of certain large plain articles which she had 
taken charge of for Mrs. Kenn. Maggie had begged to sit 
at the open end of the stall, and to have the sale of these 
articles rather than of bead-mats and other elaborate pro- 
ducts, of which she had but a dim understanding. But it soon 
appeared that the gentlemen's dressing-gowns, which were 
among her commodities, were objects of such general atten- 
tion and inquiry, and excited so troublesome a curiosity as to 
their lining and comparative merits, together with a deter- 
mination to test them by trying on, as to make her post a 
very conspicuous one. The ladies who had commodities of 
their own to sell, and did not want dressing-gowns, saw at 
once the frivolity and bad taste of this masculine preference 
for goods which any tailor could furnish ; and it is possible 
that the emphatic notice of various kinds which was drawn 
towards Miss Tulliver on this public occasion, threw a very 
strong and unmi^ " " " »ht on her subsequent conduct in 
many minds the f^t that anger, on account of 

spumed beauty ^^^lestial breasts of charitable 

ladies, bat rath ons who have once 

been mm t >^<^(^ ^cs"c^ '"^^^^ 



882 THB MILL ON THB FLOSS. 

mere force of contrast ; and also, that to-day Maggie's con- 
Bpicuous position, for the first time, made evident certain 
cmaracteristics which were subsequently felt to have an expla- 
natory bearing. There was something rather bold in Miss 
Tulliver's direct gaze, and something undefinably coarse in 
the style of her beauty, which placed her, in the opinion of 
all feminine judges, far below her cousin Miss Deane ; for 
the ladies of St. O^g's had now completely ceded to Lucy 
their hypothetic clam[is on the admiration of Mr. Stephen 
Guest. 

As for dear little Lucy herself her late benevolent triumph 
about the Mill, and all the affectionate projects sh'e was che- 
rishing for Maggie and Philip, helped to give her the highest 
spirits to-day, and she felt nothing but pleasure in the evidence 
of Maggie's attractiveness. It is true, she was looking very 
charming hei*8elf, and Stephen was paying her the utmost 
attention on this public occasion; jealously buying up the 
articles he had seen under her fingers in the process of mak- 
ing, and gaily helping her to cajole the male customers into 
the purchase of the most effeminate i^tilities. He chose to 
lay aside his hat and wear a scarlet fez of her embroidering ; 
but by superficial -observers this was necessarily liable to be 
interpreted less as a compliment to Lucy than as a mark of 
coxcombry. " Guest is a great coxcomb," young Torry 
observed ; " but then he is a privileged person in St. Ogg's — ' 
he carries all before him : if another fellow did such things, 
everybody would say he made a fool of himself." 

And Stephen purchased absolutely nothing from Maggie, 
until Lucy said, in rather a vexed under-tone — 

" See, now ; all the things of Maggie's knitting will be gone, 
and you will not have bought one. There are those deli- 
ciously soft warm things for the wrists — do buy them." 

" Oh, no," said Stephen, " they must be intended for ima- 
ginative persons, who can chill themselves on this warm day 
by thinking of the frosty Caucasus. Stem reason is my forte, 
you know. You must get Philip to buy those. By the way, 
why doesn't he come ?" 

" He never likes going where there are many people, though 
I enjoined him to come. He said he would buy up any of my 
goods that the rest of the world rejected. But now, do go 
and buy something of Maggie." 

" No, no — see — she has got a customer : there is old Wak- 
em himself just coming up." 

Lucy's eyes turned with anxious interest towards Maggie, 

to Bee how she went through this first interview, since a sadly 

inemorable time, with a maao. \)0^«t^-N!?\vssta. ^<5v \a»&t have 



THB MUJi ON THB FLOSS. 383 

80 strange a mixture of feelings ; but she was pleased to notice 
that Wakem had tact enough to enter at once into talk about 
the bazaar wares, and appear interested in purchasing, smiUng 
now and then kindly at Maggie, and not calling on her to 
speak much, as if he observed that she was rather pale and 
tremulous. 

" Why, Wakem is making himself particularly amiable to 
your cousin," said Stephen, m an undertone to Lucy ; " is it 
pure magnanimity ? you talked of a family quarrel." 

" Oh, that will soon be quite healed, I hope," said Lucy, 
becoming a little indiscreet in her satii^action, and speaking 
with an air of significance. But Stephen did not appear to 
notice this, and as some lady-purchasers came up, he lounged 
on towards Maggie's end, handling trifles and standing aloof 
imtil Wakem, who had taken out his purse, had finished his 
transactions. 

"My son came with me," he overheard Wakem saying, 
" but he has vanished into some other part of the building, 
and has left all these charitable gallantries to me. I hope 
you'll reproach him for his shabby conduct." 

She returned his smile and bow without speaking, and he 
turned away, only then observing Stephen and nodding to 
him. Maggie, conscious that Stephen was still there, busied 
herself with counting money, and avoided looking up. She 
had been well pleased that he had devoted himself to Lucy 
to-day, and had not come near her. They had begun the 
mommg with an indifferent salutation, and both had rejoiced 
in being aloof from each other, like a patient who has actually 
done without his opium, in spite of former failures in resolu- 
tion. And during the last few days they had even been 
making up their minds to failures, looking to the outward 
events that must soon come to separate them, as a reason for 
dispensing with self-conquest in detail. 

Stephen moved step by step as if he were being unwillingly 
dragged, until he had got round the open end of the stall, and 
was half hidden by a screen of draperies. Maggie went on 
counting her money till she suddenly heard a deep gentle 
voice saying, " Aren't you very tired ? Do let me bring you 
something — some fruit or jelly — ^mayn't I ? " 

The unexpected tones shook her like a sudden accidental 
vibration of a harp close by her. 

" Oh, no, thank you," she said, faintly, and only half looking 
up for an instant. 

" You look so pale," Stephen insisted, in a more entreating 
tone. " I'm sure you're exhausted. I must disobey you, and 
bring something." 



d84 THS MILL ON THE FL0B8. 

" No, indeed, I couldn't take it." 

" Are you angry with me ? What have I done ? Do look 

at me." 

^' Pray, go awa^," said Maggie, looking at Imn helplessly, 
her eyes glancing immediately from him to the opposite comer 
of the orchestra, which was half hidden by the folds of the 
old faded green curtain. Maggie had no sooner nttered this 
entreaty than she was wretched at the admission it implied ; 
but Stephen turned away at once, and, following her upward 
glance, he saw Philip Wakem seated in the half-hidden comer, 
so that he could command little more than that angle of the 
hall in which Maggie sat. An entirely new thought occurred 
to Stephen, and, ^king itself with what he had observed of 
Wakem's manner, and with Lucy's reply to his observation, it 
convinced him that there had been some former relation 
between Philip and Maggie beyond that childish one of which 
he had heard. More than one impulse made him immediately 
leave the hall, and go up-stairs to the refreshment-room, where 
walking up to Philip, he sat down behind him, and put his 
hand on his shoulder. 

" Are you studying for a portrait, Phil," he said, " or for a 
sketch of that oriel windoyr ? By George, it makes a capital 
bit from this dark corner, with the curtain just marking it off." 

" I have been studying expression," said Philip, curtly. 

" What, Miss TuUiver's ? It's rather of the savage-moody 
order to-day, I think — something of the fallen princess serving 
behind a counter. Her cousin sent me to ner with a civil 
offer to get her some refreshment, but I have been snubbed, 
as usual. There's a natural antipathy between us, I suppose : 
I have seldom the honor to please her." 

" What a hypocrite you are !" said Philip, flushing angrily. 

" What, because experience must have told me that I'm 
universally pleasing? I udmit the law, but there's some 
disturbing force here." 

" I am going," said Philip, rising abruptly. 

" So am I — to get a breath of fresh air ; this place gets 
oppressive. I think I have done suit and service long 
enough." 

The two friends walked down-stairs together without speak- 
ing. Philip turned through the outer door into the courtyard, 
but Stephen, saying, " Oh, by the by, I must call in here," 
went on along the passage to one of the rooms at the other 
end of the building, which were appropriated to the town 
library. He had the room all to himself, and a man requires 
nothing less than this, when he wants to dash his cap on the 
table, throw himself astride a chair, and stare at a high brick 



TELE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 385 

wall with a frown which would not have been beneath the 
occasion if he had been slaying " the giant Python." The 
conduct that issues from a moral conflict has often so close a 
resemblance to vice, that the distinction escapes all outward 
judgments, founded on a mere comparison of actions. It is 
clear to you, I hope, that Stephen was not a hypocrite— capa- 
ble of deliberate doubleness for a selfish end ; and yet his 
fluctuations between the indulgence of a feeling and the 
systematic concealment of it, might have made a good case 
in support of Philip's accusation. 

Meanwhile, Maggie sate at her stall cold and trembling, 
with that painful sensation in the eyes which comes from 
resolutely repressed tears. Was her life to be always like 
this ? — always bringing some new source of inward strife ? 
She heard confusedly the busy indifferent voices around her, 
and wished her mind could flow into that easy, babbling cur- 
rent. It was at this moment that Dr. Kenn, who had quite 
lately come into the hall, and was now walldng down the 
middle with his hands behind him, taking a general view, fixed 
his ey^ on Maggie for the first time, and was struck with the 
expression of pain on her beautiful &ce. She was sitting 
quite still, for the stream of customers had lessened at this 
late hour in the afternoon : the gentlemen had chiefly chosen 
the middle of the day, and Mag^e's stall was looking rather 
bare. This, with her absent, pamed expression, finished the 
contrast between her and her companions, who were all 
bright, eager, and busy. He was strongly arrested. Her 
face had naturally drawn his attention as a new and striking 
one at church, and he had been introduced to her during a 
short call on business at Mr. Deane's, but he had never spoken 
more than three words to her. He walked towards her now, 
and Maggie, perceiving some one approaching, roused herself 
to look up and be prepared to speak. She felt a childlike, . 
instinctive relief from the sense of uneasiness in this exertion, ^ 
when she saw it was Dr. Kenn's &ce-that was looking at her: 
that plain, middle-aged face, with a grave, penetratmg kind- 
ness m it, seeming to tell of a human being who had reached 
a firm, safe strand, but was looking with helpful pity towards 
the strugglers still tossed by the waves, had an effect on Mag- 
gie at this moment which was afterwards remembered by her 
as if it had been a promise. The middle-aged, who have lived 
through their strongest emotions, but are yet in the time when 
memory \a still half passionate and not merely contemplative, 
should surely b** " "^"^ ^^ ^'^t.nral priesthood, whom life has 
disciplined p ^e refuge and rescuj^<^€ 

early stnml >«s^^. "^^^^ ^*l "os^ vfi^ 



S86 THB MILL ON THB FL088. 

some moment in onr yomi^ lives, would have welcomed a 
priest of that natural order m any sort of canonicals or nnca- 
nonicals, bnt had to scramble upwards intaall the difBculties 
of nineteen entirely without such aid, as Maggie did. 

*^ You find your office rather a fatiguing one, I fear, Jdias 
TuUiver ? *' said Dr. Kenn. 

" It is, rather," said Maggie, simply, not being accustomed 
to simper amiable denials of obvious facts. 

^^But I can tell Mrs. Kenn that you have disposed of her 
goods very quickly," he added; "she will be very much 
obliged to you." 

" Oh, I have done nothing : the gentlemen came very fiist 
to buy the dressing-gowns and embroidered waistcoats, but 
I think any of the other ladies would have sold more : I didn't 
know what to say about them." 

Dr. Kenn smiled. " I hope I'm going to have you as a 
permanent parishioner now. Miss Tulliver — ^am I ? You have 
been at a distance from us hitherto." 

" I have been a teacher of a school, and I'm going into 
another situation of the same kind very soon." 

" Ah ? I was hoping you would remsdn among your mends, 
who are all in this nei^borhood, I believe." 

" Oh, I mtist ^o," said Maggie, earnestly, looking at Dr. 
Kenn with an expression of reliance, as if she had told him her 
history in those three words. It was one of those moments 
of implicit revelation which will sometimes happen even 
between people who meet quite transiently— on a mUe^s jour- 
ney, perhaps^ or when resting by the wayside. There is 
always this possibility of a word or look from a stranger to 
keep alive the sense of human brotherhood. 

Dr. Kenn's ear and eye took in all the signs that this brief 
confidence of Maggie's was charged with meaning. 

" I understand" he said ; " you feel it right to go. But 
that will not prevent our meeting again, I hope : it will not 
prevent my knowing you better, if I can be of any service to 
you." 

He put out his hand and pressed hers kindly before he 
turned away. 

"She has some trouble or other at heart," he thought. 
" Poor child ! she looks as if she might turn out to be one of 

* The souls by nature pitch'd too high, 
By Buflfering plung'd too low.* 

Mere's something wonderfully honest in those beautiful eyes." 
It m^y be surprising t\ia\. alLa^ggL'^, ^ccLcya^^Voftft many im- 



THE MILL OK THB FLOSS. 887 

perfections an excessive delight in admiration and acknow- 
ledged supremacy were not absent now, any more than when 
she was instructing the gypsies with a view towards achieving 
a royal position among them, was not more elated on a day 
when she had had the tribute of so many looks and smiles, 
together with that satisfactory consciousness which had neces- 
sanly come from being taken before Lucy's cheval-glass, and 
made to look at the full length of her tall beauty, crowned by 
the night of her massy hau*. Maggie had smiled at herself 
then, and for the moment had forgotten everything in the 
sense of her own beauty. If that state of mind could have 
lasted, her choice would have been to have Stephen Guest at 
her feet, offering her a life filled with all luxuries, with daily 
incense of adoration near and distant, and with all possibilities 
of culture at her command. But there were thmgs in her 
stronger than vanity — ^passion, and affection, and long deep 
memories of early discipline and effort, of early claims on her 
love and pity ; and the stream of vanity was soon swept along 
and mingled imperceptibly with that wider current which was 
at its highest force to-day, imder the double urgency of the 
events and inward impulses brought by the last week. 

Philip had not spoken to her himself about the removal of 
obstacles between them on his father's side — ^he shrank from 
that ; but he had told everything to Lucy, with the hope that 
Maggie, being informed through her, might give him some 
encouraging sign that their being brought thus much nearer 
to each other was a happiness to her. The rush of conflicting 
feelings was too great for Maggie to say much when Lucy, with 
a face breathing playful joy, like one of Correggio's cherubs, 
poured forth her triumphant revelation; and Lucy could 
hardly be surprised that she could do little more than cry 
with gladness at the thought of her father's wish being fulfilled, 
and of Tom's getting the Mill again in reward for all his hard 
striving. The details of preparation for the bazaar had then 
come to usurp Lucy's attention for the next few days, and 
nothing had been said by the cousins on subjects that were 
likely to rouse deeper feelmgs. Philip had been to the house 
more than once, but Maggie had had no private conversation 
with him, and thus she had been left to fight her inward battle 
without interference. 

But when the bazaar was fiurly ended, and the cousins were 
alone again, resting together at home, Lucy said — 

" You must give up going to stay with your aunt Moss 
the day after to-morrow, Maggie : write a note to her, and 
tell her you have put it off at my request, and I'll send t.^ 
man with it. She won't. ' '""^'^^yBea.^ ^wSl^Vwi^^^Bctei ^ 



888 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

time to go by-and-by ; and I don't want you to go out of the 
way just now." 

"Yes, indeed I must go, dear; I can't put it off. I 
wouldn't leave aunt Gritty out for the world. And I shall 
have very little time, for I'm going away to a new situation 
on the 25th of June." 

" Maggie !" said Lucy, almost white with astonishment. 

"I di£i't tell you, dear," said Maggie, making a great 
effort to command herself "because* you've been so busy. 
But some time ago I wrote to our old governess. Miss 
Fimiss, to ask her to let me know if she met with any situa- 
tion that I could fill, and the other day I had a letter from 
her telling me that I could take three orphan pupils of hers 
to the coast during the holidays, and then make trial of a 
situation with her as teacher. I wrote yesterday to accept 
the offer." 

Lucy felt so hurt that for some moments she was unable to 
speak. 

" Maggie," she said at last, " how could you be so unkind 
to me — ^not to tell me — ^to take «wcA a step— and now!" 
She hesitated a little, and then added — "And Philip? I 
thought everything was going to be so happy. Oh, Maggie — 
what is the reason ? Give it up ; let me write. There is 
nothing now to keep you and Philip apart." 

"Yes," said Maggie, faintly. "There is Tom's feeling. 
He said I must give him up if I married Philip. And I know 
he will not change — at least not for a long while — unless 
something happened to soften him." 

" But I will talk to him : he's coming back this week. 
And this good news about the Mill will soften him. And I'll 
talk to him about Philip. Tom's always very compliant to 
me : I don't think he's so obstinate." 

" But I must go," said Maggie, in a distressed voice. " I 
must leave some time to pass. Don't press me to stay, dear 
Lucy." 

Lucy was silent for two or three minutes, looking away and 
ruminating. At length she knelt down by her cousin, and, 
looking up in her face with anxious seriousness, said — 

" Mag^e, is it that you don't love Philip well enough to 
marry him ? — tell me — trust me." 

Maggie held Lucy's hands tightly in silence a little while. 
Her own hands were quite cold. But when she spoke, her 
voice was quite clear and distinct. 

" Yes, Lucy, I would choose to marry him. I think it 

would be the best and \i\g\ie«t lot for me — ^to make his life 

hnppy. He loved m.e fecefc. ^o w\^ ^^ ^ws^\ la^ quite 



THE HILL ON THE FLOSS. 389 

what he is to me. But I can't divide myself from my brother 
for life. I must go away, and wait. Pray, don't speak to me 
again about it." 

Lucy obeyed in pain and wonder. The next word she 
said was — 

" Well, dear Maggie, at least you will go to the dance at 
Park House to-morrow, and have some music and brightness, 
before you go to pay these dull, dutiful visits. Ah! here 
come aunty and the tea." 



¥^ 



CHAPTER X. 

THE SPELL SEEMS BBOKEN. 

The suite of rooms opening into each other at Park 
House looked duly brilliant with lights and flowers and 
the personal splendors of sixteen couples, with attendant 
parents and guardians. The focus of bnlliancy was the long 
drawing-room, where the dancing went forward, under the 
inspiration of the grand piano ; the library, into which it 
opened at one end, had the more sober illumination of matu- 
rity, with caps and cards ; and at the other end, the pretty 
sitting-room, with a conservatory attached, was left as an 
occasional cool retreat. Lucy, who had laid aside her black 
for the first time, and had her pretty slimness set off by an 
abundant dress of white crape, was the acknowledged queen 
of the occasion; for this was one of the Miss Guests' 
thoroughly condescending parties, including no member of 
any aristocracy higher than that of St. Og^s, and stretching 
to the extreme limits of commercial and professional gentility. 

Maggie at first refused to dance, saying that she had for- 
gotten all the figures — it was so many years since she had 
danced at school ; and she was glad to have that excuse, for 
it is ill dancing with a heavy heart. But at length the music 
wrought in her young limbs, and the longing came ; even 
though it was the horrible young Torry, who walked up a 
second time to try and persuade . her. She warned him tnat 
she could not dance anything but a country dance ; but he, 
of course^ was willing to wait for that high felicity, meaning 
only to be complimentary when he assured her at several 
intervals that it was a "great bore" that she couldn't waltz — 
he would have liked so much to waltz with her. But at last 
it was the turn of the good old-fashioned dance^ whiclilv»s^^3ssfe 
least of vMiity and the most of infixim<»i\> m ^X.^ ^sA^^^^S©^^ 



890 THB KILL ON THB FL06B. 

quite forgot her troablous life in a childlike enjoyment of that 
half-rustic rhythm which seems to banish pretentions eti- 
quette. She felt quite charitably towards young Torry, as 
his baud bore her alon^ and held her up in the dance; her 
eyes and cheeks had that fire of young joy in them which 
will flame out if it can find the least breath to fan it ; and her 
simple black dress, with its bit of black lace, seemed like 
the dim setting of a jewel. 

Stephen had not yet asked her to dance — had not yet paid 
her more than a passing civility. Since yesterday, that inward 
vision of her which perpetually made part of his conscious- 
ness, had been half-screened by the image of Philip Wakem, 
which came across it like a blot : there was some attachment 
between her and Philip ; at least there was an attachment on 
his side, which made her feel in some bondage. Here then, 
Stephen told himself, was another claim of honor which called 
on him to resist the attraction that was continually tiireaten- 
ing to overpower him. He told himself so ; and yet he had 
once or twice felt a certain savage resistance, and at another 
moment a shuddering repugnance, to this intrusion of Philip's 
image, which almost made it a new incitement to rush towards 
Maggie and claim her for himself. Nevertheless he had done 
what he meant to do this evening : he had kept aloof from 
her ; he had hardly looked at her; and he had been gaily 
assiduous to Lucy. But now his eyes were devouring Mag- 
gie : he felt inclined to kick yoimg Torry. out of the dance, 
and take his place. Then he wanted the dance to end that he 
might get rid of his partner. The possibility that he too 
should dance with Maggie, and have her hand in his so long, 
was beginning to possess him like a thirst. But even now 
their hands were meeting in the dance — ^were meeting still to 
the very end of it, though they were far off each other. 

Stephen hardly knew what happened, or in what automatic 
way he got through the duties of politeness in the interval, 
until he was free and saw Maggie seated alone again, at the 
farther end of the room. He made his way towards her round 
the couples that were forming for the waltz, and when Mag^e 
became conscious that she was the person he sought, she felt, 
in spite of all the thoughts that had gone before, a glowing 
gladness at heart. Her eyes and cheeks were still brightened 
with her childlike enthusiasm in the dance ; her whole frame 
was set to joy and tenderness ; even the coming pain could 
not seem bitter — she was ready to welcome it as a part of life, 
for life at this moment seemed a keen vibrating consciousness 
poised above pleasure or pain. This one, this last night, she 
xni^ht expand nnioBttame^^ m \}sv^^«s?cQ^^'^thje present, 



THB MILL ON THJB FL06S. 891 

without those chill eating thoughts of the past and the 
future. 

"They're going to waltz again,'* said Stephen, bending to 
speak to her, with that glance and tone of subdued tenderness 
which young dreams create to themselves in the summer 
woods when low Cooing voices M the air. Such glances and 
tones bring the breath of poetry with them into a room that 
is half-stifling with glaring gas and hard flirtation. 

" They are going to waltz again : it is rather dizzy work 
to look on, and the room is very warm. Shall we walk about 
alittle?" 

He took her hand and placed it within his arm, and they 
walked on into the sitting-room, where the tables were strewn 
with engravings for the aiccommodation of visitors who would 
not want to look at them. But no visitors were here at this 
moment. They passed on into the conservatory. 

" How strange and unreal the trees and flowers look with 
the lights among them," said Maggie, in a low voice.' " They 
look as if they belonged to an enchanted land, and would 
never fade away : — I could &ncy they were all made of 
jewels." 

She was looking at the tier of geraniums as she spoke, and 
Stephen made no answer ; but he was looking at her — ^and does 
not a supreme poet blend light and sound into one, calling 
darkness mute, and light eloquent? Something strangely 
powerM there was in the light of Stephen's long gaze, for it 
made Maggie's ^e turn towards it and look upward at it — 
slowly, like a flower at the ascending brightness. And they 
walked unsteadily on, without feeling that they were walking 
— without feeling anything but that long grave mutual ^aze 
which has the solemnity belonging to all deep human passion. 
The hovering thought that they must and would renounce 
each other made this moment of mute confession more intense 
in its rapture. 

But they had reached the end of the conservatory, and 
were obliged to pause and turn. The change of movement 
brought a new consciousness to Maggie ; sh« olushed deeply, 
turned away her head, and drew her 9tm from Stephen's, 
going up to some flowers to smell them. Stephen stood 
motionless, and still pale. 

** Oh, may I get this rose P " said Mag^e, making a great 
effort to say something, and dissipate the burning sense of 
irretrievable confession. "I think I am quite wicked with 
roses — ^I like to gather them and smell them till they have 
no scent left." 

Stephen was mute : he was incapdcAfi oi y^ 



892 THB MILL ON THS FL08Q* 

together, and Maggie bent her arm a little upward towards 
the large hali^opened rose that had attracted her. Who has 
not felt the beauty of a woman's arm? — ^the nnspeakable 
suggestions of tenderness that lie in the dimpled elbow, and 
all the varied gently-lessening cnrves down to the delicate 
wrist, with its tiniest, ahnost imperceptible nicks in the firm 
softness. A woman's arm touched the soul of a great sculp- 
tor two thousand years ago, so that he wrought an image of it 
for the Parthenon which moves us still as it clasps lovingly the 
time-worn marble of a headless trunk. Mag^e's was such 
an arm as that — and it had the warm tints of life. 

A mad impulse seized on Stephen ; he darted towards the 
arm, and showered kisses on it, clasping the wrist. 

But the next moment Maggie snatched it from him, and 
glared at him like a wounded war-goddess, quivering with- 
rage and humiliation. 

" How dare you ? " — she spoke in a deeply shaken, half- 
smothered voice. " What right have I given you to insult 
me?" 

She darted from him into the adjoining room, and threw 
herself on the sofa, panting and trembling. 

A horrible punishment was come upon her for the sin of 
allowing a moment's happiness that was treachery to Lucy, to 
Philip — ^to her own better soul. That momentary happiness 
had been smitten with a bUght — a leprosy : Stephen thought 
more lightly of her than he did of Lucy. 

As for Stephen, he leaned back against the framework of 
the conservatory, dizzy with the conflict of passions — love, 
rage, and conftised despair : despair at his want of self-mas- 
tery, and despair that he had offended Maggie. 

The last feeling surmounted every other : to be by her side 
again and entreat forgiveness was the only thing that had the 
force of a motive for him, and she had not been seated more 
than a few minutes when he came and stood humbly before 
her. But Maggie's bitter rage was unspent. 

" Leave me to myself if you please," she said, with impetu- 
ous haughtiness, " and for the future avoid me." 

Stephen turned away, and walked backwards and forwards 
at the other end of the room. There was the dire necessity 
of going back into the daiicing-room again, and he was begin- 
ning to be conscious of that. They had been absent so short 
a time, that when he went in again th© waltz was not ended. 

Maggie, too, was not long before she re-entered. All the 
pride of her nature was stung into activity : the hateful weak- 
ness which had dragged her within reach of this wound to her 
self respect, had at least v^xou^t \\.^ o^^ra. cxix<^. The thoughts 



THB MILL OK THE FLOSS. 393 

and temptations of the last month should all be flting away 
into an unvisited chamber of memory : there was nothing to 
allure her now ; duty would be easy, and all the old calm pur- 
poses would reign peacefully once more. She re-entered the 
drawing-room still with some excited brightness in her face, 
but with a sense of proud self-command that defied anything 
to agitate her. She refused to dance again, but she talked 
quite readily and calmly with every one who addressed her. 
And when they got home that night, she kissed Lucy with a 
free heart, almost exulting in this scorching moment, which 
had delivered her from the possibility of another word or look 
that would have the stamp of treachery towards that gentle, 
unsupsicious sister. 

The next morning Maggie did not set off to Basset quite so 
soon as she had expected. Her mother was to accompany 
her in the carriage, and household business could not be de- 
spatched hastily by Mrs. TuUiver. So Maggie, who had been 
in a hurry to prepare herself, had to sit waiting, equipped for 
the drive, in the garden. Lucy was busy in the house wrap- 
ping up some bazaar presents tor the younger ones at Basset, 
and when there was a loud ring at the door-bell, Maggie felt 
some alarm lest Lucy should bring out Stephen to her : it was 
sure. to be Stephen. 

But presently the visitor came out into the agrden alone, 
and seated himself by her on the garden-chair. It was not 
Stephen. 

" We can just catch the tips of the Scotch firs, Maggie, 
from this seat," said Philip. 

They had taken each other's hands in silence, but Maggie 
had looked at him with a more complete revival of the old 
childlike affectionate smile than he had seen before, and he 
felt encouraged. 

" Yes," she said, " I often look at them, and wish I could 
see the low sunlight on the stems again. But I have never 
been that way but once — ^to the churchyard, with my mother." 

" I have been there — ^I go there — continually," said Philip. 
" I have nothing but the past to live upon." 

A keen remembrance and keen pity impelled Maggie to 
put her hand in Philip's. They had so often walked hand-in- 
hand! 

"I remember all the spots," she said — "just where you 
told me of particular things — ^beautiful stories that I had never 
heard of before." 

" You will go there again soon — ^won't you, Maggie ?'' said 
Philip, getting timid« " The Mill will »oo^ — * hrothfts?^ 
home again." 



894 THB HILL ON THB FLOSS. 

"Yes; but I shall not be there," said Maggie. "I shall 
only hear of that happiness. I am going away again — ^Lucy 
has not told you, perhaps ?" 

"Then the future will never join on to the past again, 
Maggie ? That book is quite closed ?" 

The grey eyes that had so often looked up at her with 
entreatuig worship, looked up at her now, with a last strug- 
gling ray of hope in them, and Maggie met them with her 
large sincere gaze. 

" That book never will be closed, Philip,** she said, with 
grave sadness ; " I desire no ftiture that wdl break the ties 
of the past. But the tie to my brother is one of the strongest. 
I can do nothing willingly that will divide me always from 
him.*' 

" Is that the only reason that would keep us apart for ever, 
Maggie ?" said Philip, with a desperate determination to have 
a definite answer. 

" The only reason," said Maggie, with calm decision. And 
she believed it. At that moment she felt as if the enchanted 
cup had been dashed to the ground. The reactionary excite- 
ment that gave her a proud self-mastery had not subsided, 
and she looked at the future with a sense of calm choice. 

They sat hand-in-hand without looking at each other or 
speaking for a few minutes : in Maggie's mind the first scenes 
of love and parting were more present than the actual mo- 
ment, and she was looking at Philip in the Red Deeps. 

Philip felt that he ought to have been thoroughly happy in 
that answer of hers : she was as open and transparent as a 
rock-pool. Why was he not thoroughly happy? Jealousy 
is never satisfied with anything short of an omniscience that 
would detect the subtlest fold of the heart. 



CHAPTER XI. 

IN THE LANE. 

Magoie had been four days at her aunt Moss's, giving the 
early June sunshine quite a new brightness in the care-dimmed 
eyes of that affectionate woman, and making an epoch for 
her cousins great and small, who were learning her words 
and actions by heart, as if she had been a transient avatar of 
perfect wisdom and beauty. 
She was standing on t\iQi Cia.\xa^way with her aunt and a 
group of cousins feeing t\ie c^c^^-a.^^ ^\. ^-aX. wx\s^» TMsa^ftut 



THE MUX OK THE FLOSS. 396 

in the life of the farmyard before the afternoon milkin^time. 
The great buildings round the hollow yard were as dreary 
and tumble-down as ever, but over the old garden-wall the 
straggling rose-bushes were beginning to toss their summer- 
weight, and the grey wood and old bricks of the house, on 
its higher level, had a look of sleepy age in the broad after- 
noon sunlight, that suited the quiescent time. Maggie, with 
her bonnet over her arm, was smiling down at the hatch of 
small fluffy chickens, when her aunt exclaimed— 

" Goodness me ! who is that gentleman coming in at the 
gate ?" 

It was a gentleman on a tall bay horse ; and the flanks and 
neck of the horse were streaked black with fast riding. 
Maggie felt a beating at head and heart — horrible as the 
sudden leaping to life of a savage enemy who had feigned 
death. 

"Who is it, my dear?'^ said Mrs. Moss, seeing in Maggie's 
&ce the evidence that she knew. 

"It is Mr. Stephen Guest," said Mag^e, rather fidntly, 

" My cousin Lucy's a gentleman who is very intimate at 

my cousin's." 

Stephen was already close to them, had jumped off his 
horse, and now raised his hat as he advanced. 

" Hold the horse, Willy," said Mrs. Moss to the twelve-year- 
old boy. 

"No, thank you," said Stephen, pulling at the horse's 
impatiently tossing head. "I must be going again imme- 
diately. I have a message to deliver to you. Miss TuUiver — 
on private business. May I take the liberty of asking you to 
wait a few yards with me ?" 

He had a half-jaded, half-irritated look, such as a man gets 
when he has been dogged by some care or annoyance tnat 
makes his bed and his dinner of little use to him. He spoke 
almost abruptly, as if his errand were too pressing for him to 
trouble himself about what would be thought by Mrs. Moss 
of his visit and request. Good Mrs. Moss, rather nervous in 
the presence of this apparently haughty gentleman, was in- 
wardly wondering whether she would be domg right or wrong 
to invite him again to leave his horse and walk in, when 
Maggie, feeling all the embarrassment of the situation, and 
unable to say anything, put on her bonnet, and turned to 
walk towards the gate. 

Stephen turned too, and walked by her side, leading his 
horse. 

Not a word was spoken till they were out in the lane^ and 
had walked four or five yardf^^wWi'^llagBft^'^^^^^^^ 



896 THE MILL ON THB FL06S. 

looking straight before her all the while, tamed again towalk 
back, saying with haughty resentment — 

" There is no need for me to go any farther. I don't know 
whether yon consider it gentlemanly and delicate conduct to 
place me in a position that forced me to come out with you — 
or whether you wi^ed to insult me still further by thrusting 
an interview upon me in this way." 

** Of course you are angry with me for coming,'* said 
Stephen, bitterly. " Of course it is of no consequence what a 
man has to suffer — ^it is only your woman's dignity that you 
care about." 

Maggie gave a slight start, such as might have come from 
the sli^test possible electric shock. 

" As if it were not enough that I'm entangled in this way — 
that I'm mad with love for yon — ^that I resist the strongest 
passion a man can feel, because I try to be true to other claims 
— ^but you must treat me as if I were a coarse brute, who 
would willingly offend you. And when, if I had my own 
choice, I should ask yon to take my hand, and my fortune, 
and my whole life, and do what you liked with them I I 
know I forgot myself. I took an unwarrantable liberty. I 
hate myself for having done it. But I repented immediately 
— ^I've been repenting ever since. You ought not to think it 
unpardonable : a man who loves with his whole soul, as I do 
you, is liable to be mastered by his feelings for a moment ; 
but you know — ^you must beUeve — ^that the worst pain I could 
have is to have pained you — ^that I would give the world to 
recall the error." 

Maggie dared not speak — dared not turn her head. The 
strength that had come from resentment was all gone, and her 
lips were quivering visibly. She could not trust herself to 
utter the full forgiveness that rose in answer to that confesdon. 

They were come nearly in front of the gate again, and she 
paused, trembling. 

" You must not say these things — ^I must not hear them," 
she said, looking down in misery, as Stephen came in front of 
her, to prevent her from going farther towards the gate. 
I' I'm very sorry for any pain you have to go through ; but it 
is of no use to speak." 

" Yes, it is of use," said Stephen, impetuously. "It would 
be of use if you would treat me with some sort of pity and 
consideration, instead of doing me vile injustice in your mind. 
I could bear everything more quietly if I knew you didn't hate 
me for an insolent coxcomb. Look at me — see what a hunted 
devil I am : I've been riding thirty miles every day to get 
away from the thong\it oi ^ou?"* 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 397 

Maggie did not — dared not look. She had already seen the 
harassed face. But she said gently — 

" I don't think any evil of you." 

"Then, dearest, look at me," said Stephen, in deepest, 
tenderest tones of entreaty. " Don't go away from me yet. 
Give me a moment's happiness — ^make me feel you've forgiven 
me." 

"Yes, I do forgive you," said Maggie, shaken by those 
tones, and all the more frightened at herself. " But pray let 
me go in again. Pray go away." 

A great tear fell from under her lowered eyelids. 

"I can't go away from you — ^I can't leave you," said 
Stephen, with still more passionate pleading. " I shaU come 
back a^in if you send me away with this coldness — I can't 
answer for myself. But if you go with me only a little way, 
I can live on that. You see plainly enough that your anger 
has only made me ten times more unreasonable." 

Maggie turned. But Tancred, the bay horse, began to 
make such spirited remonstrances against this frequent change 
of direction, that Stephen, catching sight of Willy Moss 
peeping through the gate, called out, " Here I just come and 
hold my horse for five minutes." 

" Oh no," said Maggie, hurriedly, "my aunt will think it 
so strange." 

"Never mind," Stephen answered impatiently; "they 
don't know the people at St. Ogg's. Lead him up and down 
just here, for five minutes," he added to Willy, who was now 
close to them ; and then he turned to Maggie's side, and they 
walked on. It was clear that she must go on now. 

" Take my arm," said Stephen, entreatingly ; and she took 
it, feeling all the while as if she were sliding downwards in a 
nightmare. 

" There is no end to this misery," she began, struggling to 
repel the influence by speech. "It is wicked — ^base— ever 
aUowing a word or look that Lucy — ^that others might not 
have seen. Think of Lucy." 

" I do think of her— bless her. If I didn't ;-" Stephen 

had laid his hand on Maggie's that rested on his arm, and 
they both felt it difficult to speak. 

" And I have other ties," Maggie went on, at last, with a 
desperate effort, — " even if Lucy did not exist." 

"You are engaged to Philip Wakem," said Stephen, 
hastily. " Is it so ? " 

" I consider myself engaged to him — ^I don't mean to marry 
any one else." 

Stephen was silent again nntVL tYie^V'aA \>\£ra^^ 



898 THB HILL ON THB FLOSS. 

Bon into a side lane, all grassy and sheltered. Then he bnrst 
out impetuously — 

" It IS unnatural — ^it is horrible. Maggie, if you loved me 
as I love you, we should throw everything else to the winds 
for the sake of belonging to each other. We should break 
all these mistaken ties that were made in blindness, and deter- 
mine to marry each other." 

" I would rather die than fell into that temptation," said 
Maggie, with deep, slow distinctness, — ^all the gathered 
spiritual force of painful years coming to her aid in this 
extremity. She drew her arm from his as she spoke. 

" Tell me, then, that you don't care for me," he said, almost 
violently. " Tell me that you love some one else better." 

It darted through Maggie's mind that here was a mode of 
releasing herself from outward struggle — ^to tell Stephen that 
her whole heart was Philip's. But her lips would not titter 
that, and she was silent. 

" If you do love me, dearest," said Stephen, gently, taking 
up her hand again and laying it within his arm, " it is better 
— ^it is right that we should marry each other. We cant 
help the pain it will give. It is come upon us without our 
seeking : it is natural — ^it has taken hold of me in spite of 
every effort I have made to resist it. God knows, I've been 
trying to be faithfiil to tacit engagements, and I've only made 
things worse — ^I'd better have given way at first." 

Maggie was silent. If it were not wrong — ^if she were 
once convinced of that, and need no longer beat and struggle 
against this current, soft and yet strong- as the summer 
stream ! 

" Say ' yes,' dearest," said Stephen, leaning to look entreat- 
ingly in her face. " What could we care about in the whole 
world beside, if we belonged to each other ? " 

Her breath was on his face — ^his lips were very near hers — 
but there was a great dread dwelling in his love for her. 

Her lips and eyelids quivered ; she opened her eyes full on 
his for an instant, like a lovely wild animal timid and strug- 
gling under caresses, and then turned sharp round towards 
home again. 

" And after all," he went on, in an impatient tone, trying 
to defeat his own scruples as well as hers, " I am breaking no 
positive engagement: — ^if Lucy's affections had been with- 
drawn from me and given to some one else, I should have felt 
no right to assert a claim on her. If you are not absolutely 
pledged to Philip, we are neither of us bound." 

" You don't beUeve tYiai—- \\i as not your real feeling," said 
jjfaggie, earnestly. ^^ "You fee\ %:&\ ^Q, ^^J^aJ^ "^^ ^^»J^ ^« lies 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 399 

in the feelings and expectations we have raised in other 
minds. Else all pledges might be broken, when there was 
no outward penalty. There wonld be no such thing as faith- 
fulness." 

Stephen was silent: he could not pursue that argument; 
the opposite conviction had wrought in him too strongly 
through his previous time of struggle. But it soon presented 
itself m a new form. 

"The pledge canH be ftilfiUed," he said, with impetuous 
insistance. "It is unnatural: we can only pretend to give 
ourselves to any one else. There is wrong in that too — ^there 
may be misery in it for them as well as for us. Maggie, you 
must see that — you do see that." 

He was looking eagerly at her face for the least sign of 
compliance; his large, firm, gentle grasp was on her hand. 
She was silent for a few moments, with her eyes fixed on the 
ground ; then she drew a deep breath, and said, looking up at 
him with solemn sadness— 

" Oh, it is difficult — ^life is very difficult. It seems right to 
me sometimes that we should follow our strongest feeling ; — 
but then, such feelings continually come across the ties that 
all our former life has made for us — ^the ties that have made 
others dependent on us — and would cut them in two. If life 
were quite easy and simple, as it might have been in paradise, 
and we could always see that one being first towards whom 
.... I mean, if life did not make duties for us before love 
comes — ^love would be a sign that two people'ought to belong 
to each other. But I see — ^I feel it is not so now : there are 
things we must renounce in life : some of us must resign love. 
Many things are difficult and dark to me ; but I see one thing 
quite clearly — ^that I must not, cannot seek my own happiness 
by sacrificing others. Love is natural ; but surely pity and 
faithfulness and memory are natural too. And they would 
live in me still, and punish me if I did not obey them. I 
should be haunted by the suffering I had caused. Our love 
would be poisoned. Don't urge me; help me — ^help me, 
because I love you." 

Maggie had become more and more earnest as she went on; 
her face had become fiushed, and her eyes fuller and fuller of 
appealing love. Stephen had the fibre of nobleness in him 
that vibrated to her appeal ; but in the same moment — ^how 
could it be otherwise? — ^that pleading beauty gained new 
power over him. 

*' Dearest," he said, in scarcely more than a whisper, while 
his arm stole round her, " I'll do, I'll bear anything yoa-^iri^* 
But — one kiss — one — the last — before 'we ^«x\»?'' 



400 tHE MILL ON THS FLOSS. 

One kiss — ^and then a long look — ^until Maggie said, tremu- 
lously, " Let me go— let us make haste back." 

She hurried along, and not another word was said. Stephai 
stood still and beckoned when they came within sight of WiUy 
and the horse, and Maggie went on through the gate. Mrs. 
Moss was standing alone at the door of the old porch : she 
had sent all the cousins in, with kind thoughtfulness. It might 
be a joyful thing that Maggie had a rich and handsome lover, 
but she would naturally feel embarrassed at coming in again: 
— and it might not be joyful. In either case, Mrs. Moss waited 
anxiously to receive Maggie by herself The speaking fece 
told plainly enough that, if there was joy, it was of a very 
agitating dubious sort. 

" Sit down here a bit, my dear." She drew Maggie into 
the porch, and sat down 6n the bench by her : — ^there was no 
privacy in the house. 

" Oh, aunt Gritty, I'm very wretched. I wish I could have 
died when I was fiiteen. It seemed so easy to ^ve things up 
then — ^it is so hard now." 

The poor child threw her arms round her aunt's neck, and 
fell into long, deep sobs. 



CHAPTER Xn. 

A FAMILY PAETY. 

Maggie left her good aunt Gritty at the end of the w^k, 
and went to Garum Firs to pay her visit to aunt Pullet accord- 
ing to agreement. In the mean time, very unexpected things 
had happened, and there was to be a family party at Garum 
to discuss and celebrate a change in the fortunes of the Tulli- 
vers, which was likely finally to carry away the shadow of 
their demerits like the last limb of an eclipse, and cause their 
hitherto obscured virtues to shine forth in full-rounded splen- 
dor. It is pleasant to know that a new ministry just come 
into office are not the only fellow-men who enjoy a period of 
high appreciation and full-blown eulogy : in many respectable 
families throughout this realm, relatives becoming creditable 
meet with a similar cordiality of recognition, which, in its fine 
freedom from the coercion of any antecedents, suggests the 
hopeful possibility that we may some day without aAy notice 
find ourselves in full millennium, with cockatrices who have 
ceased to bite, and wolves that no longer ah^- *^tb 

ny but the 'bVandes^ \xi\,evv\Aaiv!&, 



THS MILL ON THE FLOSS. 401 

Lucy came so early as to have the start even of aunt Glegg ; 
for she longed to have some undisturbed talk with Maggie 
about the wonderful news. It seemed — did it not? said Lucy, 
with her prettiest air of wisdom— as if everything, even other 
people's misfortunes (poor creatures 1) were conspiring now to 
make poor dear aunt TuUiver, and cousin Tom, and haughty 
Maggjie too, if she were not obstinately bent on the contrary, 
as happy as they deserved to be after all their troubles. To 
think that the very day — ^the very day — ^after Tom had come 
back from Newcastle, that unfortunate young Jetsome, whom 
Mr. Wakem had placed at the mill, had been pitched off his 
horse in a drunken fit, and was lying at St. Ogg's in a dan- 
gerous state, so that Wakem had signified his wish that the 
new purchasers should enter on the premises at once! It was 
very dreadful for that unhappy young man, but it did seem as 
if the misfortune had happened then, rather than at any other 
time, in ord^r that cousin Tom might all the sooner have the 
fit reward of his exemplary conduct — ^papa thought so very 
highly of him. Aunt TuUiver must certainly go to the Mill 
now, and Iceep house for Tom : that was rather a loss to Lucy 
in the matter of household comfort ; but then, to think of poor 
aunty being in her old place again, and gradually getting com- 
forts about her there ! 

On this last point Lucy had her -cunning projects, and when 
she and Maggie had made their dangerous way down the 
bright stairs into the handsome parlor, where the very sun- 
beams seemed cleaner than elsewhere, she directed her ma- 
noeuvres, as any other great tactician would have done, against 
the weaker side of the enemy. 

"Aunt Pullet," she said, seating herself on the sofa, and 
caressingly adjusting that lady's floating cap-string, " I want 
you to . make up your mind what linen and things you will 
give Tom towards housekeeping ; because you're always so 
generous — ^you give such nice things, you mow ; and if you 
set the example, aunt Glegg will follow." 

"That she never can, my dear," said Mrs. Pullet, with 
unusual vigor, " for she hasn't got the linen to follow suit wi' 
mine, I can tell you. She'd niver the taste, not if she'd spend 
the money. Big checks and live things, like stags and foxes, 
all her table linen is — ^not a spot nor a diamont among 'em. 
But it's poor work, dividing one's linen before one dies — ^I 
niver thought to ha' done that, Bessie," Mrs. Pullet continued, 
shaking her head and looking at her sister Tulliver, " when 
yon and me chose the double diamont, the first flax iver we'd 

^un — and the Lord knows where yours is gone." 

" I'd no choice, I'm sure, sister^" «axd ^oot l&x^,'^:^SS&R«t. 



402 THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

accustomed to consider herself in the light of an accused pe^ 
son. " I'm sure it was no wish o' mine, iver, as I should lie 
awake o' nights thinking o' my best bleached linen all oyer 
the country." 

" Take a peppermint, Mrs. Tulliver," said uncle PuUet, 
feeling that he was offering a cheap and wholesome form of 
comfort, which he was recommending by example. 

" Oh but, aunt Pullet," said Lucy, " you've so much beauti- 
ful linen. And suppose you had had daughters ! Then you 
must have divided it, when they were married.'* 

" Well, I don't say as I won't do it," said Mrs. Pullet, " for 
now Tom's so lucky, it's nothing but, right his Mends ^ould 
look on him, and help him. There's the table-doths I bought 
at your sale, Bessy ; it was nothing but good-natur o' me to 
buy 'em, for they've been lying in the chest ever since. But 
I'm not going to give Maggie any more o* my Indy muslin 
and things, if she's to go into service again, when she might 
stay and keep me company, and do my sewing for me, if she 
wasn't wanted at her brother's:" 

" Going into service " was the expression by which the 
Dodson mind represented to itself the position of teacher or 
governess, and Maggie's return to that menial condition, now 
circumstances offered her more eligible prospects, was likely 
to be a sore point with all her relatives, besides Lucy. Mag- 
gie in her crude form, with her hair down her back, and alto- 
gether in a state of dubious promise, was a most undesirable 
niece ; but now, she was capable of being at once ornamental 
and useful. The subject was revived in aunt and uncle 
Glegg's presence over the tea and muffins. 

" Hegh, hegh ! " said Mr. Glegg, good-naturedly patting 
Maggie on the back, "nonsense, nonsense! Don't let us 
hear of you taking a place again, Maggie. Why, you must 
ha' picked up half-a-dozen sweethearts at the bazaar: isn't 
there one of 'em the right sort of article ? Come, now ?" 

" Mr. Glegg," said his wife, with that shade of increased 
politeness in her severity which she always put on with her 
crisper fronts, " you'll excuse me, but you're far too light for 
a man of your years. It's respect and duty to her aunts, and 
the rest of her kin as are so good to her, should have kept my 
niece from fixing about going away again, without consulting 
us— not sweethearts, if I'm to use such a word, though it 
was never beared in my family." 

" Why, what did they call us, when we went to see 'em, 
then, eh, neighbor Pullet ? They thought us sweet enough, 
then," said Mr. Glegg, winking pleasantly, while Mr. Pullet, 
at the suggestion of swee\)ii^«>^\»ooV^\Lul<a more sugar. 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS, 408 

" Mr. Gleffg," said Mrs. G., " if you're going to be tindeli- 
cate, let me know." 

" La, Jane, your husband's only joking," said Mrs. Pullet ; 
** let him joke while he's got health and strength. There's 
poor Mr. Tilt got his mouth drawn all o' one side, and 
couldn't laugh if he was to try." 

" I'll trouble you for the muffineer, then, Mr. Glegg," said 
Mrs. G., " if I may be so bold to interrupt your joking. 
Though it's other people must see the joke in a niece's putting 
a sHght on her mother's eldest sister, as is the head o' the 
family ; and only coming in and out on short visits, all the 
Idme she's been in the town, and then settling to go away 
without my knowledge — as I'd laid caps out on purpose for 
her to make 'em up for me, — ^and me as have divided my 
money so equal " 

"Sister," Mrs. TuUiver broke in, anxiously, "I'm sure 
Ms^gie never thought o' going away without staying at 
your house as well as the others. Not as it's my wish she 
should go away at all — ^but quite contrairy. I'm sure Pm 
innocent. I've said over and over again, * My dear, you've 
no call to go away.' But there's ten days or a fortnight 
Maggie '11 have before she's fixed to go ; she can stay at your 
house just as well, aqd I'll step in when I can, and so will 
Lucy." 

" Bessy," said Mrs. Glegg, " if you'd exercise a little more • 
thought, you might know I should hardly think it was worth 
while to unpin a bed, and go to all that trouble now, just at 
the end o' the time, when our house isn't above a quarter of 
an hour's walk from Mr. Deane's. She can come the first 
thing in the morning, and go back the last at night, and be 
thai&ful she's got a good aunt so close to her to come and sit 
with. I know JT should, when I was her age." 

" La, Jane," said Mrs. Pullet, " it 'ud do your beds good to 
have somebody to sleep in 'em. There's that striped room 
smells dreadful mouldy, and the glass mildewed like anything. 
I'm sure I thought I eiiould be struck with death when you 
took me in." 

" Oh, there is Tom I " exclaimed Lucy, clapping her hands. 
"He's come on Sindbad, as I told him. I was afraid he was 
not going to keep his promise." 

Maggie jumped up to kiss Tom as he entered, with strong 
feeling, at this first meeting since the prospect of retm*ning to 
the Mill had been opened to him ; and she kept his hand, 
leading him to the chair by her side. To have no cloud 
between herself and Tom was still a perpetual yearning in her^ 
that had its root deeper than aU c\i«iig|^. l&i^ ^sos^^ vj^^^^«sr 



404 THE HILL ON THE FLOSS. 

Yery kindly this evening, and said, "WeU, Magsie, how's 
aunt Moss ? " 

" Come, come, sir," said Mr. Glegg, putting out his hand. 
" Why, you're such a big man, you carry all before you it 
seems. You're come into your luck a good deal earlier than 
us old folks did — ^but I wish you joy, I wish you joy. You'll 
get the Mill all for your own again, some day, I'll be boimd. 
You won't stop half-way up the hill." 

"But I hope he'll bear in mind as it's his mother's &mily as 
he owes it to," said Mrs. Glegg. " If he hadnt had them to 
take after, he'd ha' been poorly off. There was never any 
failures, nor lawing, nor wastefulness in our family — ^nor dying 
without wiUs " 

" No, nor sudden deaths," said aunt Pullet ; " allays the 
doctor called in. But Tom had the Dodson skin : I said that 
from the first. And I don't know what you mean to do, sister 
Glegg, but I mean to give him a table-cloth of all my three 
biggest sizes but one, besides sheets. I don't say what more 
I shall do ; but that I shall do, and if I should die to-morrow, 
Mr. Pullet, you'll bear it in mind — though you'll be blunder- 
ing with the keys, and never remember as that on the third 
shelf o' the left-hand wardrobe, behind the night-caps with the 
broad ties — ^not the narrow frilled uns — ^is the key o'-the 
drawer in the Blue Room, where the key of the Blue Closet is. 
You'll make a mistake, and I shall niver be worthy to know 
it. You've a memory for my pills and draughts, wonderful — 
I'll allays say that of you — ^but you're lost among the keys." 
This gloomy prospect of the confusion that would ensue on her 
decease was very affecting to Mrs. Pullet. 

" You carry it too far, Sophy — that locking in and out," 
said Mrs. Glegg, in a tone of some disgust at this folly. " You 
go beyond your own family. There's nobody can say I don't 
lock up ; but I do what's reasonable, and no more. And as 
for the linen, I shall look out what's serviceable, to make a 
present of to my nephey : I've got cloth as has never been 
whitened, better worth having than other people's fine 
holland; and I hope he'll lie down in it ^ and think of his 
aunt." 

Tom thanked Mrs. Glegg, but evaded any promise to medi- 
tate nightly on her virtues ; and Mr. Glegg effected a diversion 
for him by asking about Mr. Deane's intentions concerning 
steam. 

Lucy had had her far-sighted views in begging Tom to come 

on Sindbad. It appeared, when it was time to go home, that 

the man-servant was to ride the horse, and cousin Tom was to 

drive home his mothex aa^liacY. ''''Xo\xTSi»&\»^\iY yourself^ 



IB MILL ON THB FLOSS. 405 

aunty," s' mtriving young lady, " because I must sit 

by Tom at deal to say to him." 

In th of her affectionate anxiety for Maggie, 

Lucy c suade herself to defer a conversation s^ut 

her T io, she thought, with such a cup of joy 

befo* ^"apid fulfilment of his wish about the Mill, 

znuf ant and flexible. Her nature supplied her 

^t Tom's ; and she was puzzled as well as pained 

to 7 unpleasant change on his countenance when she 

^ J history of the way in which Philip had used his 

lO ith his &ther. She had counted on this revelation 

Bi Stroke of policy, which was to turn Tom's heart 

f hilip at once, and, besides that, prove that the elder 

y ras ready to receive Maggie with all the honors of a 

d in-law. Nothing was wanted, then, but for dear 

7 always had that pleasant smile when he looked at 

4 y, to turn completely round, say the opposite of 

% d always said before, and declare that he, for his 

flighted that all the old grievances should be healed, 
; waggle should have Philip with all suitable despatch : 

LiUcy's opinion nothing could be easier, 
blinds strongly marked by the positive and negative 
hat create severity — strength of will, conscious reo- 
*t purpose, narrowness of imagination and intellect, 

g er of self-control, and a disposition to exert control 

o^ 3TS — ^prejudices come as the natural food of tendencies 

w\ an get no sustenance out of that complex, fragmentary, 
dou j)rovoking knowledge which we call truth. Let a pre- 
judioK, be bequeathed, carried in the air, adopted by hearsay, 
caught in through the eye — ^however it may come, these minds 
will give it a habitation : it is something to assert strongly 
and bravely, something to fill up the void of spontaneous ideas, 
something to impose on others with the authority of conscious 
right : it IS at once a staff and a baton. Every prejudice that 
will answer these purposes is self-evident. Our good upright 
Tom Tulliver's mind was of this class : his inward criticism of • 
his father's faults did not prevent him from adopting his 
father's prejudice ; it was a prejudice against a man of lax 
principle and lax life, and it was a meeting-pomt for all the 
disappointed feelings of family and personal pride. Other 
feelings added their force to produce Tom's bitter repugnance 
to Philip, and to Maggie's union with him ; and notwithstand- 
ing Lucy's power over her strong-willed cousin, she got no- 
thing but a cold refusal ever to sanction such a marriage : '' but 
of course Maggie could do as she liked — she had declared her 
determination to be independent. ¥ot ToTD^%\naiNt %^.^^»v«^.7^ 



406 TBB HILL OS THB FLOSS, 

himself bound hj his duty to his father's memory, and by 
every manly feelmg, never to consent to any relation witht^e 
Wakems." 

Thus, all that Lucy had effected by her zealous mediatioii 
was to fill Tom's mind with the expectation that Maggie's 
perverse resolve to go into a situation again, would presently 
metamorphose itselj^ as her resolves were apt to do, into 
something equally perverse, but entirely different — ^a marriage 
with Philip W akem. 



CHAPTER Xm. 

BOBNB ALONG BY THB TIDB. 



In less than a week Maggie was at St. Ogg's again, — out- 
wardly in much the same position as when her visit there had 
just begun. It was easy for her to fill her mornings apart 
from Lucy without any obvious effort ; for she had her pro- 
mised visits to pay to her aunt Glegg, and it was natural that 
she should give her mother more than usual of her companion- 
ship in these last weeks, especially as there were preparations 
to be thought of for Tom's housekeeping. But Lucy would 
hear of no pretext for her remaining away in the evenings : 
she must always come from aunt Glegg's before dinner — " else 
what shall I have of you ?" said Lucy, with a tearful pout that 
could not be resisted. And Mr. Stephen. Guest had unac- 
countably taken to dining at Mr. Deane's as often as possible, 
instead of avoiding that, as he used to do. At first he began 
his mornings with a resolution that he would not dine there — 
not even go in the evening, till Maggie was away. He had 
even devised a plan of starting off on a journey in this agreea- 
ble June weather: the headaches which he had constantly 
been alleging as a ground for stupidity and silence were a 
• sufficient ostensible motive. But the journey was not taken, 
and by the fourth morning no distinct resolution was formed 
about the evenings : they were only foreseen as times when 
Maggie would still be present for a little while — when one 
more touch, one more glance, might be snatched. For, why 
not ? There was nothing to conceal between them : they knew 
— they had confessed their love, and they had renounced each 
other : they were going to part. Honor and conscience were 
going to divide them : Maggie, with that appeal from her 
inmost soul, had decided it; but surely they might cast a 
Ungeviag look at each otXiet ?iOTo«»^\3cka ^i^,\i^iQTe they turned 



THB MILL ON THE BLOS& 407 

away never to look again till that strange light had for ever 
faded out of their eyes. 

Maggie, all this time, moved about with a quiescence and 
even torpor of manner, so contrasted with her usual fitful 
brightness and ardor, that tjucy would have had to seek 
some other cause for such a change, if she had not been con- 
vinced that the. position in which Maggie stood between 
Philip and her brother, and the prospect of her self-imposed 
wearisome banishment, were quite enough to account for a 
large amount of depression. But under this torpor there was 
a fierce battle of emotions, such as Maggie in all her life of 
struggle had never known or foreboded : it seemed to her as 
if all the worst evil in her had lain in ambush till now, and 
had suddenly started up fiill-armed with hideous, overpower- 
ing strength 1 There were moments in which a cruel selfish- 
ness seemed to be getting possession of her : why should not 
Lucy — ^why should not Philip suffer ? She had had to suffer 
through many years of her life ; and who had renounced any- 
thing for her? And when somethfhg like that fulness of 
existence — ^love, wealth, ease, refinement — all that her nature 
craved, waff brought within her reach, why was she to forego 
it, that another might have it — another, who perhaps needed 
it less? But amidst all this new passionate tumult there * 
were the old voices making themselves heard with rising 
power, till, from time to time, the tumult seemed quelled. 
Was that existence which tempted her the full existence she 
dreamed? Where, then, would be all the memories of early 
striving, all the deep pity for another's pain, which had been 
nurtured in her through vears of affection and hardship, all 
the divine presentiment of something higher than mere per- 
sonal enjoyment which had made the sacredness of life ? She 
might as well hope to enjoy walking by maiming her feet, as 
hope to enjoy an existence in which she set out by maiming 
the fidth and sympathy that were the best organs of her soul. 
And then, if pain were so hard to Aer, what was it to others ? 
— " Ah, God I preserve me from inflicting — give me strength 
to bear it." — ^How had she sunk into this struggle with a 
temptation that she would once have thought herself as 
secure from as from deliberate crime ? When was that first 
hateful moment in which she had been conscious of a feeling 
that clashed with her truth, affection, and gratitude, and had 
not shaken it from her with horror, as if it had been a loath- 
some thing? — And yet, since this strange, sweet, subduing 
influence did not, should not conquer her — since it was to 
remain simply her own suffering .... her mind was meet- 
ing Stephen's in that thought of Yiift^ t\\ftX >iJsve^ TCi^gcN^ ^«^ 



408 THB MILL OST THE FLOSS. 

snatch moments of mute confession before tlie parting came. 
For was not he suffering too ? She saw it cUdly — saw it in 
the sickened look of fatigue with which, as soon as he was 
not compelled to exert himself he relapsed into indijSerence 
towards everything but the possibihty of watching her. Could 
she refuse sometimes to answer that beseeching look which 
she felt to be following her like a low murmur of love and 
pain ? She refused it less and less, till at last the evening for 
them both was sometimes made of a moment's mutual gaze : 
— they thought of it till it came, and when it had come, they 
thought of nothing else. One other thing Stephen seemed 
now and then to care for, and that was, to sing : it was a way 
of speaking to Maggie. Perhaps he was not distinctly con- 
scious that he was impelled to it by a secret longing — ^running 
counter to all his self-confessed resolves — ^to deepen the hold 
he had on her. Watch your own speech, and notice how it 
is guided by your less conscious purposes, and you will under- 
stand that contradiction in Stephen. 

Philip Wakem was '^ less frequent visitor, but he came 
occasionally in the evening, and it happened that he was there 
when Lucy said, as they sat out on the lawn, near sunset — 

" Now Maggie's tale of visits to aunt Glegg is completed, 
I mean that we shall go out boating every day until she goes. 
She has not had half enough boating, because of these tire- 
some visits, and she likes it better than anything. Don't you, 
Maggie ? ^ 

" Better than any sort of locomotion, I hope you mean," 
said Philip, smiling at Maggie, who was lolling backward in 
a low garden-chair, " else she will be selling her soul to that 
ghostly boatman who haunts the Floss — only for the sake of 
being drifted in a boat for ever." 

"Should you Hke to be her boatman?" said Lucy. 
" Because, if you would, you can come with us and take an 
oar. If the Floss were but a quiet lake instead of a river, 
we should be independent of any gentleman, for Maggie can 
row splendidly. As it is, we are reduced to ask services of 
knights and squires, who do not seem to offer them with 
great alacrity." 

She looked playful reproach at Stephen, who was sauntering 
up and down, and was just singing in pianissimo fitlsetto-— 

" The thirst that from the soul doth rise, 
Doth ask a drink dwine." 

He took no notice, but still kept aloof: he had done so 
frequently during Pb!v\ip"*B T^CiesiX, Nm\.^. 



THS MILL ON THE FLOSS. 409 

*' You don't seem inclined for boating," said Lucy, when 
he came to sit down by her on the bench. " Doesn't rowing 
suit you now ? " 

" Oh, I hate a large party in a boat," he said, almost irrita- 
bly. " m come when you have no one else." 

Lucy colored, fearing that Phihp would be hurt ; it was 
quite a new thing for Stephen to speak in that way ; but he 
had certainly not been well of late. Philip colored too, but 
less from a feehng of personal offence than from a vague sus- 
picion that Stephen's moodiness had some relation to Maggie, 
who had started up from her chair as he spoke, and had 
walked towards the hedge of laurels to look at the descending 
sunlight on the river. 

" As Miss Deane didn't know she was excluding others by 
inviting me," said Philip, "I am boimd to resign." 

" No, indeed, you shall not," said Lucy, much vexed. " I 
particularly wish for your company to-morrow. The tide will 
suit at halt-past ten : it will be a delicious time for a couple 
of hours to row to Luckreth and walk back, before the sun 
gets too hot. An^ how can you object to four people in a 
boat ? " she added, looking at Stephen. 

"I don't object to the people, but the number," said 
Stephen, who had recovered himself, and was rather ashamed 
of his rudeness. " If I voted for a fourth at all, of course it 
would be you, Phil. But we won't divide the pleasure of 
escorting the ladies; we'll take it alternately. I'll go the 
next day." 

This incident had the effect of drawing Philip's attention 
with freshened solicitude towards Stephen and Maggie ; but 
when they re-entered the house, music was proposed, and 
Mrs. Tulliver and Mr. Deane being occupied with cribbage, 
Maggie sat apart near the table where the books and work 
were placed— doing nothing, however, but listening abstract- 
edly to the music. Stephen presently turned to a duet which 
he insisted that Lucy and Philip should sing: he had often 
done the same thing before ; but this evening Philip thought 
he divined some double intention in every word and look of 
Stephen's, and watched him keenly — ^angry with himself all 
the while for this clinging suspicion. For had not^Maggie 
virtually denied any ground for his doubts on her side ? and 
she was truth itself: it was impossible not to beheve her word 
and glance when they had last spoken together in the garden. 
Stephen might be strongly fascinated by her (what was more 
natural ?), but Philip felt himself rather base for intruding on 
what must be his friend's painful secret. Still, he watcned. 
Stephen, moving away from the piauo^ «ajo3B\«t^^ ^^^^^rSl?^ v*^- 

8 



410 THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 

wards the table near which Maggie sat, and turned over the 
newspapers, apparently in mere idleness. Then he seated 
himself with his back to the piano, dragging a newspaper 
under his elbow, and thrusting his hand through his hair, as 
if he had been attracted by some bit of local news in the 
Laceham Ccmrier. He was in reality looking at Maggie, 
who had not taken the slightest notice of his approach. She 
had always additional strength of resistance when Philip was 
present, just as we can restrain our speech better in a spot 
that we feel to be hallowed. But at last she heard the word 
" dearest," uttered in the softest tone of pained entreaty, 
like that of a patient who asks for something that ought to 
have been given without asking. She had never heard that 
word since the moments in the lane at Basset, when it had 
come from Stephen again and again, almost as involuntarily 
as if it had been an inarticulate cry. Philip could hear no 
word, but he had moved to the opposite side of the piano, 
and could see Maggie start and blush, raise her eyes an 
instant towards Stephen's face, but immediately look appre- 
hensively towards himself. It was not evident to her that 
Philip had observed her ; but a pang of shame, under the 
sense of this concealment, made her move from her chair and 
walk to her mother's side to watch the game at cribbage. 

Philip went home soon after in a state of hideous doubt 
mingled with wretched certainty. It was impossible for him 
now to resist the conviction that there was some mutual con- 
sciousness between Stephen and Maggie; and for half the 
night his irritable, susceptible nerves were pressed upon 
almost to frenzy by that one wretched fact : he could attempt 
no explanation that would reconcile it with her words and 
actions. When, at last, the need for belief in Maggie rose to 
its habitual predominance, he was not long in imagining the 
truth : — she was struggling, she was banishing herself — this 
was the clue to all he had seen since his return. But athwart 
that belief there came other possibilities that would not be 
driven out of sight. His imagination wrought out the whole 
story : Stephen was madly in love with her ; he must have 
told her so ; she had rejected him, and was hurrying away. 
But would he give her up, knowing — ^Philip felt the fact with 
heart-crushing despair — that she was made half helpless by 
her feeling towards him ? 

When the morning came, Philip was too ill to think of 

keeping his engagement to go in the boat. In his present 

agitation he could decide on nothing : he could only alternate 

between contradictory intentions. First, he thought he must 

have an interview w\t\i M."a,^^^ ^jdA ^x^x'^^ ker to confide in 



THS MILL ON THE FLOSS. 411 

him ; then again, he distrusted his own interference. Had he 
not been thrusting himself on Maggie all along ? She had 
uttered words long ago in her young ignorance ; it was enough 
to make her hate him that these should be continually present 
with her as a bond. And had he any right to ask her for a 
revelation of feelings which she had evidently intended to 
withhold from him ? He would not trust himself to see her, 
till he had assured himself that he could act from pure anxiety 
for her, and not from egoistic irritation. He wrote a brief 
note to Stephen, and sent it early by the servant, saying that 
he was not well enough to ftilfil his engagement to Miss Deane. 
Would Stephen take his excuse, and fill his place ? 

Lucy had arranged a charming plan, which had made her 
quite content with Stephen's refusal to go in the boat. She 
discovered that her father was to drive to Lindum this morn- 
ing at ten : Lindum was the very place she wanted to go to, 
to make purchases — important purchases, which must by no 
means be put off to another opportunity; and aunt TulUver 
must go too, because she was concerned in some of the pur- 
chases. 

" You will have your row in the boat just the same, you 
know," she said to Maggie when they went out of the break- 
jKist-room and up-stairs together ; " Philip will be here at half- 
past ten, and it is a delicious morning. Now don't say a 
word against it, you dear dolorous thing. What is the use 
of my being a fairy godmother, if you set your face against 
all the wonders I work for you ? Don't think of awful cousin 
Tom : you may disobey him a little." 

Maggie did not persist in objecting. She was almost glad 
of the plan ; for perhaps it would bring her some strength 
and calmness to be alone with Philip agam : it was like revisit- 
ing the scene of a quieter life, in which the very struggles 
were repose, compared with the daily tumult of the present. 
She prepared herself for the boat, and at half-past ten sat 
waiting m the drawing-room. 

The ring of the door-bell was punctual, and she was think- 
ing with half-sad, affectionate pleasure of the surprise Philip 
would have in finding that he was to be with her alone, when 
she distinguished a firm rapid step across the hall, that was 
certainly not Philip's : the door opened, and Stephen Guest 
entered. 

In the first moment they were both too much agitated to 
speak ; for Stephen had learned from the servant that the • 
others were gone out. Maggie had started up and sat down 
again, with her heart beating violently ; and Stephen, throw- 
ing down his cap and gloves, came and ^\»\5i^ \i<5?t \si ^^^sc^s^^* 



412 THS MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

She thought Philip would be coming soon ; and with great 
effort — ^for rfie trembled visibly — she rose to go to a distant 
chair. 

^^ He is not coming," said Stephen, in a low tone. ^ jT am 
going in the boat." 

"Oh, we can't go," said Maggie, sinking into her chair 
again. " Lucy did not expect — she would be hurt. Why is 
not Philip come ? " 

" He is not well ; he asked me to come instead." 

" Lucy is gone to Lindum," said Maggie, taking off her 
bonnet, with hurried, trembling fingers. " We must not go." 

" Very weU," said Stephen, dreamily, looking at her, as he 
rested ms arm on the l«ck of his chair. " Then we'U stay 
here." 

He was looking into her deep, de^ eyes — ^&r off and 
mysterious as the starlit blackness, and yet very near, and 
timidly lovuig. Maggie sat perfectly still — ^perhaps for mo- 
ments, perhaps for minutes — ^until the helpless trembling had 
ceased, and there was a warm glow on her check. 

" The man is waiting — ^he has taken the cushions," she said. 
"Will you go and tell him?" 

" What shall I tell him ? " said Stephen, almost ia a whisper. 
He was looking at the lips now. 

Maggie made no answer. 

" Let us go," Stephen murmured, entreatingly rising, and 
taking her hand to raise her too. " We shall not be long 
together." 

And they went. Maggie felt that she was being led down 
the garden among the^ roses, being helped with firm tender 
care into the boat, having the cushion and cloak arranged for 
her feet, and her parasol opened for her (which she had for- 
gotten) — all by this stronger presence that seemed to bear her 
along without any act of her own will, like the added self 
which comes with the sudden exalting influence of a strong 
tonic — and she felt nothing else. Memory was excluded. 

They glided rapidly along, Stephen rowing, helped by the 
backward-flowing tide, past the Tofton trees and houses — on 
between the silent sunny fields and pastures, which seemed 
filled with a natural joy that had no reproach for theirs. The 
breath of the young, unwearied day, the delicious rhythmic 
dip of the oars, the fragmentary song of a passing bird heard 
now and then, as if it were only the overflowing of brim-full 
, gladness, the sweet solitude of a twofold consciousness that 
was mingled into one by that grave untiring gaze which need 
not be averted— what else could there be in their minds for 
the first hour? Some\oNJ^ «vi\i^\3L'fe^\a.\i^vi exclamation 



THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 418 

of love came from Stephen from time to time, as lie went on 
rowing idly, half automatically: otherwise, they spoke no 
word; for what could words have been but an mlet to 
thought ? and thought did not belong to that enchanted haze 
in which they were enveloped — ^it belonged to the past and 
the j^ture that lay outside the haze. Maggie was only dimly 
conscious of the banks, as they passed them, and dwelt with 
no recognition on the villages : she knew there were several 
to be passed before they reached Luckreth, where they always 
stopped and left the boat. At all times she was so liable to 
fits of absence, that she was likely enough to let her way- 
marks pass unnoticed. 

But at last Stephen, who had been rpwing more and more 
idly, ceased to row, laid down the oars, folded his arms, and 
looked down on the water as if watching the pace at which 
the boat glided without his help. This sudden change roused 
Maggie. She looked at the far-stretching fields — at the banks 
close by^ — and felt that they were entirely strange to her. A 
terrible alarm took possession of her. 

" Oh, have we passed Luckreth — ^where we were to stop ? " 
she exclaimed, looking back to see if the place were out of 
sight. No village was to be seen. She turned round again, 
with a look of distressed questioning at Stephen. 

He went on watching the water, and said, in a strange, 
dreamy, absent tone, " x es — a long way." 

" Oh what shall I do ? " cried Maggie, in an agony. ** We 
shall not get home for hours — and Lucy — Oh, God help 
me ! » 

She clasped her hands and broke into a sob, like a fright- 
ened child : she thought of nothing but of meeting Lucy, and 
seeing her look of pamed surprise and doubt — ^pemaps of just 
upbraiding. 

Stephen moved and sat beside her, and gently drew down 
the clasped hands. 

" Maggie,'' he said, in a deep tone of slow decision, " let 
us never go home again — ^till no one can part us — ^tiU we are 
married." 

The unusual tone, the startling words, arrested Maggie's 
sob, and she sat quite stiU — ^wondering : as if Stephen might 
have seen some possibilities that would alter everything, and 
annul the wretched facts. 

" See, Maggie, how everything has come without our seek- 
ing — ^m spite of all our eflforts. We never thought of being 
alone together again : it has all been done by others. See 
how the tide is carrying us out — away from all those vxm^ 
ral bonds that we have been trying to ix\83l^ festet ^css^sfift 



414 THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 

and trying in vain. It will carry us on to Torby, and we can 
land there, and get some carriage, and hurry on to York, and 
then to Scotland — ^and never pause a moment till we are 
bound to each other, so that only death can part us. It is the 
only right thing, dearest : it is the only way of escaping from 
this wretched entanglement. Everything has concurred to 
point it out to us. We have contrived nothing, we have 
thought of nothing ourselves." 

Stephen spoke with deep, earnest pleading. Maggie listened 
— ^passing from her startled wonderment to the yearning after 
that belief, that the tide was doing it all — ^that she might 
glide along with the swift, silent stream, and not struggle any 
more. But across thait stealing influence came the terrible 
shadow of past thoughts ; and the sudden horror lest now, at 
last, the moment of fatal intoxication was close upon her, 
called up feelings of angry resistance towards Stephen. 

" Let me go ! " she said, in an agitated tone, flashing an 
indignant look at him, and trying to get her hands free. 
" You have wanted to deprive me of any choice. You knew 
we were come too far — ^you have dared to take advantage 
of my thoughtlessness. It is unmanly to bring me into such a 
position,'* 

Stung at this reproach, he released her hands, moved back 
to his former place, and folded his arms, in a sort of despera- 
tion at the difficulty Maggie's words had made present to him. 
If she would not consent to go on, he must curse himself for 
the embarrassment he had led her into. But the reproach 
was the imendurable thing : the one thing worse than parting 
with her was, that she should feel he had acted xmworthily 
towards her. At last he said, in a tone of suppressed rage — 

" I didn't notice that we had passed Luckreth till we had 
got to the next village ; and then it came into my mind that 
we would go on. I can't justify it : I ought to have told you. 
It is enough to make you hate me — since you don't love me 
well enough to make everything else indifferent to you — as I 
do you. Shall I stop the boat, and try to get you out here ? 
I'll tell Lucy that I was mad — and that you hate me — and you 
shall be clear of me for ever. No one can blame you, because 
I have behaved uhpardonably to you." 

Maggie was paralysed : it was easier to resist Stephen's 
pleading, than this picture he had called up of himself suffer- 
ing, while she was vindicated — easier even to turn away from 
his look of tenderness than from this look of angry misery, 
that seemed to place her in selfish isolation from him. He had 
called up a state of feeling in which the reasons which had 
acted on her conscience aeeme^ \.o \i^ Xx^ssissaxifced into mere 



THE MTTJi OK THB FLOSS. 415 

self-regard. The indignant fire in her eyes was quenched, and 
she began to look at him with timid distress. She had 
reproached him for being hurried into an irrevocable trespass 
— she, who had been so weak herself. 

" As if I shouldn't feel what happened to you — -just the same," 
she said, with reproach of another kind — the reproach of love, 
asking for luore trust. This yielding to the idea of Stephen's 
suffermg was more fatal than the other yielding, because it 
was less distinguishable from that sense of others' claims which 
was the moral basis of her resistance. 

He felt all the relenting in her look and tone — ^it was heaven 
opening again. He moved to her side, and took her hand, lean- 
ing his elbow on the back of the boat, and saying nothing. 
He dreaded to utter another word; he dreaded to make 
another movement, that might provoke another reproach or 
denial from her. Life hung on her consent : everything else 
was hopeless, confused, sickening misery. ' They glided along 
in this way, both resting in that silence as in a haven, both 
dreading lest their feelings should be divided again — till they 
became aware that the clouds had gathered, and that the 
slightest perceptible freshening of the breeze was growing and 
growing, till the whole character of the dav was altered. 

" You will be chill, Maggie, in this thm dress. Let me 
raise the cloak over your shoulders. Get up an instant, dear- 
est." 

Maggie obeyed : there was an imspeakable charm in being 
told what to do, and having everything decided for her. She 
sat down again covered with the cloak, and Stephen took to 
his oars again, making haste ; for they must try to get to 
Torby as fast as they could. Maggie was hardly conscious 
of having said or done anything decisive. All yielding is 
attended with a less vivid consciousness than resistance : it is 
the partial sleep of thought ; it is the submergence of our 
own personality by another. Every influence tended to lull 
her mto acquiescence : that dreamy gliding in the boat, 
which had lasted for four hours, and had brought some weari- 
ness and exhaustion — the recoil of her fatigued sensations 
firom the impracticable difficulty of getting out of the boat 
at this unknown distance from home, and walking for long 
miles — all helped to bring her into more complete subjection 
to that strong mysterious charm which made a last parting 
from Stephen seem the death of all joy — which made the 
thought of wounding him like the first touch of the torturing 
iron before which resolution shrank. And then there was the 
present happiness of being with him, which was enough to 
absorb all her languid energy. 



416 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

Presently Stephen observed a vessel coming afler them. 
Several vessels, among them the steamer to Mudport, had 
passed them with the early tide, but for the last hour they had 
seen none. He looked more and more eagerly at this vessel, 
as if a new thought had come into his mind along with it, and 
then he looked at Maggie, hesitatingly. 

" Maggie, dearest," he said, at last, " if this viBSsel should 
be going to Mudport, or to any convenient place on the coast 
northward, it would be our best plan to get them to take us 
on board. You are fatigued — ^and it may soon rain — it may he 
a wretched business, getting to Torby in this boat. It's only 
a trading-vessel, but I dare say you can be made tolerably 
comfortable. We'll take the cushions out of the boat. It is 
really our best plan. They'll be glad enough to take us : I've 
got plenty of money about me ; I can pay them well." 

Maggie's heart began to beat with reawakened alarm at this 
new proposition ; but she was silent — one course seemed as 
di£Scult as another. 

Stephen hailed the vessel. It was a Dutch vessel going to 
Mudport, the English mate informed him, and, if this wind 
held, would be there in less than two days. 

" We had got out too far with our boat," said Stephen. 
" I was trying to make for Torby. But I'm afraid of the 
weather ; and this lady — my wife — ^will be exhausted with 
fatigue and hunger. Take us on board — wiU you ? — and haul 
up the boat. I'll pay you well." 

Maggie, now really faint and trembling with fear, was taken 
on board, making an interesting object of contemplation to ad- 
miring Dutchmen. The mate feared the lady would have a poor 
time of it on board, for they had no accommodation for such 
entirely unlooked-for passengers — ^no private cabin larger than 
an old-fashioned church-pew. But at least they had Dutch 
cleanliness, which makes all other inconveniences tolerable ; 
and the boat-cushions were spread into a couch for Maggie on 
the poop with all alacrity. But to pace up and down the 
deck leaning on Stephen — ^being upheld by his strength — was 
the first change that she needed : then came food, and then 
quiet reclining on the cushions, with the sense that no new 
resolution could be taken that day. Everything must wait till 
to-morrow. Stephen sat beside her, with her hand in his; 
they could only speak to each other in low tones, only look at 
each other now and then, for it would take a long while to dull 
the curiosity of the five men on board, and reduce these hand- 
some young strangers to that minor degree of interest which 
belongs, in a sailor's regard, to all objects nearer than the 
horizon. But Stephen ^aa tTYam^\i«a\X^ V^^j^^ . Every other 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 417 

thought or care was thrown into unmarked perspective by 
the certainty that Maggie must be his. - The leap had been 
taken now : he had been tortured by scruples, he had fought 
fiercely with overmastering inclination, he had hesitated; but 
repentance was impossible. He murmured forth in fi'ag- 
mentary sentences his happiness — ^his adoration — his tender- 
ness — ^Ms belief that their life together must be heaven — ^that 
her presence with him would give rapture to every common 
day — that to satisfy her lightest wish was dearer to him than 
all other bliss — ^that everything was easy for her sake, except 
to part with her : and now they never would part ; be would 
belong to her for ever — ^and all that was his was hers — ^had no 
value for him except as it was hers. Such thin^ uttered in low 
broken tones by the one voice that has first stured the fibre of 
young passion, have only a feeble effect — on experienced minds 
at a distance fi-om them. To poor Maggie they were very near : 
they were like nectar held^ close to thirsty lips : there was, 
there mttst be, then, a life for nw)rtals here below which was 
not hard and chill — ^in which affection would no longer be 
self-sacrifice. Stephen's passionate words made the vision of 
such a life more fully present to her than it had ever been 
before ; and the vision fer the time excluded all realities — ^all 
except the returning sun-gleams which broke out on the 
waters as the evening approached, and mingled with the 
visionary sunlight of promised happiness — ^all except the hand 
that pressed hers, and the voice that spoke to her, and the 
eyes that looked at her with grave, unspeakable love. 

There was to be no rain, after all ; the clouds rolled off to 
the horizon again, making the great purple rampart and long 
purple isles of that wondrous land which reveals itself to us 
when the sun goes down — ^the land that the evening star 
watches over. Sfaggie was to sleep all night on the poop ; it 
was better than going below ; and she was covered with the 
warmest wrappings the ship could furnish. It was stUl early, 
when the fatigues of the day brought on a drowsy longing for 
perfect rest, and she laid down her head, looking at the faint 
dying flush in the west, where the one golden lamp was get- 
ting brighter and brighter. Then she looked up at Stephen, 
who was still seated by her, hanging over her as he leaned his 
arm against the vessel's side. Behmd all the delicious visions 
of these last hours, which had flowed over her like a soft stream 
and made her entirely passive, there was the dim conscious- 
ness that the condition was a transient one, and that the mor- 
row must bring back the old life of struggle — ^that there were 
thoughts which .would presently avenge themselves for this 
oblivion. But now nothmg was distinct t^ li«t \ ^'^-^R^akXtf^Si!^ 

S2 



418 THB HELL ON THB FLOSS. 

lulled to sleep with that soft stream still flowing over her, with 
those delidous visions melting and fading like the wondrous 
atrial land of the west. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

WAKING. 



"When Maggie was gone to sleep, Stephen, weary too with 
his nnaccnstomed amount of rowing, and with the intense 
inward life of the last twelve hours, but too restless to sleep, 
walked and lounged about the deck, with his cigar, far on 
into midnight, not seeing the dark water — ^hardly conscious 
there were stars — ^living only in the near and distant future. 
At last f&tigne conquered restlessness, and he roUed himself 
up in a piece of tarpauling on the deck near Maggie's feet. 

She had fallen asleep before nine, and had been sleeping for 
six hours before the faintest hint of a midsummer daybreak 
was discernible. She awoke from that vivid dreaming which 
makes the margin of our deeper rest : She was in a boat on 
the wide water with Stephen, and iu the gathering darkness 
something like a star appeared, that grew and grew till they 
saw it was the Virgin seated in St. Ogg's boat, and it came 
nearer and nearer, till they saw the Virgin was Lucy and the 
boatman was Philip — ^no, not Philip, but her brother, who 
\ rowed past without looking at her ; and she rose to stretch 
i^^ out her arms and call to him, and their own boat turned over 
with the movement, and they began to sink, till with one 
spasm of dread she seemed to awake, and find she was a child 
again in the parlor at evening twilight, and Tom was not really 
angry. From the soothed sense of that false waking she 
passed to the real waking— to the plash of water against the 
vessel, and the sound of a footstep on the deck, and the awful 
starlit sky. There was a moment of utter bewilderment before 
her mind could get disentangled from the confused web of 
dreams, but soon the whole terrible truth urged itself upon 
her. Stephen was not by her now : she was alone with her 
own memory and her own dread. The irrevocable wrong that 
must blot her life had been committed : she had brought sor- 
row into the lives of others — into the lives that were knit up 
with hers by trust and love. The feeling of a few short weeks 
had hurried her into the sins her nature hadsmost recoiled 
Srom — breach of faitTi «a9L QiT\3L«^«.^iMs5:ifiSj&\ iha had rent the 



THE MILL OK THE FLOSS. 419 

ties that had given meaning to duty, and had made herself an 
outlawed soul, with no guide but the wayward choice of her 
own passion. And where would that lead her ? — where had 
it led her now ? She had said she would rather die than fall 
into that temptation. She felt it now — ^now that the conse- 
quences of such a fall had come before the outward act was 
completed. There was at least this fruit from all her years 
of striving after the highest and best — that her soul, though 
betrayed, beguiled, ensnared, could never deliberately consent 
to a choice of the lower. And a choice of what ? Oh God — 
not a choice of joy, but of conscious cruelty and hardness ; 
for could she ever cease to see before her Lucy and Philip, 
with their murdered trust and hopes ? Her life with Stephen 
could have no sacredness : she must for ever sink and wander 
vaguely, driven by uncertain impulse ; for she had let go the 
clew of life — ^that clew which once in the far-off years her 
young need had clutched so strongly. She had renounced all 
delights then, before she knew them, before they had come 
within her reach. Philip had been right when he told her 
that she knew nothing of renunciation : she had thought it 
was quiet ecstasy; she saw it face to face now — ^that sad 
patient living strength which holds the clew of life, and saw 
that the thorns were for ever pressing on its brow. The yes- 
terday, which could never be revoked — if she could change it 
now for any length of inward silent endurance, she would 
have bowed beneath that cross with a sense of rest. 

Daybreak came and the reddening eastern light, while her 
past fife was grasping her in this way, with that tightening 
clutch which comes in the last moments of possible rescue. 
She could see Stephen now lying on the deck still fast asleep, 
and with the sight of him there came a wave of anguish that 
found its way in a long-suppressed sob. The worst bitterness 
of parting — ^the thought that urged the sharpest inward cry 
for help, was the pain it must give to him. But surmounting 
everything was the horror at her own possible failure, the 
dread lest her conscience should be benumbed again, and not 
rise to energy till it was too late — Too late 1 It was too late 
already not to have caused misery — ^too late for everything, 
perhaps, but to rush away from the last act of baseness — ^the 
tasting of joys that were wrung from crushed hearts. 

The sun was rising now, and Maggie started up with the 
sense that a day of resistance was beginning for her. Her 
eyelashes were still wet with tears, with her shawl over her 
head, she sat looking at the slowly rounding sun. SometW 
roused Stephen too, and, getting up from his hard be^" 
came to sit beside her. The sharp instinct o€ ^soa^ 



420 THB MILL ON THB FLOSS. 

saw sometbing to give him alarm in the very first glance. He 
had a hovering dread of some resistance in Maggie's nature 
that he would be unable to overcome. He had the uneasy 
consciousness that he had robbed her of perfect freedom yes- 
terday : there was too much native honor in him, for him not 
to feel that if her will should recoil, his conduct would have 
been odious, and she would have a right to reproach him. 

But Maggie did not feel that right : she was too conscious 
of fetal weakness in herself— too full of the tenderness that 
comes with the foreseen need for inflicting a wound. . She let 
him take her hand when he came to sit down beside her, and 
smiled at him— only with rather a sad glance ; she could say 
nothing to pain him till the moment of possible parting was 
nearer. And so they drank their cup of coffee together, and 
walked about the deck, and heard the captaui's assurance that 
they should be in at Mudport by five o'clock, each with an 
inward burthen ; but in him it was an xmdefined fear, which 
he trusted to the coming hours to dissipate ; in her it was a 
definite resolve on which she was trying silently to tighten her 
hold. Stephen was continually, through the morning, express- 
ing his anxiety at the fatigue and discomfort she was suffering, 
and alluded to landing and to the change of motion and 
repose she would have in a carriage, wanting to assure him- 
self more completely by presupposmg that everything would 
be as he had arranged it. For a long while Maggie contented 
herself with assuring him that she had had a good night's rest, 
and that she didn't mind about being on the vessel — ^it was not 
like being on the open sea — it was only a little less pleasant 
than being in a boat on the Floss. But a suppressed resolve 
will betray itself in the eyes, and Stephen became more and 
more imeasy as the day advanced, under the sense that Mag- 

fie had entirely lost her passiveness. He longed, but did not 
are, to speak of their marriage — of where they would go 
after it, and the steps he would take to inform his fether and 
the rest of what had happened. He longed to assure himself 
of a tacit assent from her. But each time he looked at her, 
he gathered a stronger dread of the new, quiet sadness with 
which she met his eyes. And they were more and more 
silent. 

*' Here we are in sight of Mudport," he said, at last. " Now, 
dearest," he added, turning towards her with a look that was 
half-beseeching, " the worst part of your fatigue is over. On 
the land we can command swiftness. In another hour and 
a half we shall be in a chaise together — and that will seem 
rest to you after this." 
'Caggie felt it was tkae \.o «^^^\ V^» ^ wvLd only be unkind 



THS MILL ON THB FLOSS. 421 

now to assent by silence. She spoke in the lowest tone, as he 
had done, but with distinct decision. 

" We shall not be together — we shall have parted." 

The blood rushed to Stephen's face. 

« We shall not," he said. " I'U die first." 

It was as he had dreaded — ^there was a struggle coming. 
But neither of them dared to say. another word, till the boat 
was let down, and they were taken to the landing-place. Here 
there was a cluster of gazers and passengers awaiting the 
departure of the steamboat to St. Ogg's. Maggie had a dim 
sense, when she had landed, and Stephen was hurrying her 
along on his arm, that some one had advanced towards her 
from that cluster as if he were coming to speak to her. But 
she was hurried along, and was indifferent to everything but 
the coming trial. 

A porter guided them to the nearest inn and posting-house, 
and Stephen gave the order for the chaise as they passed 
through the yard. Maggie took no notice of this, and only 
said. " Ask them to show us into a room where we can sit 
down." 

When they entered, Maggie did not sit down, and Stephen, 
whose face had a desperate determination in it, was about to 
ring the bell, when she said, in a firm voice : — 

" I'm not going : we must part here." 

" Maggie," he said, turning round towards her, and speak- 
ing in the tones of a man who feels a process of torture 
beginning. " do you mean to kill me ? What is the use of 
it now ? The whole thing is done." 

" No, it is not done," said Maggie. " Too much is done ; 
more than we can ever remove the trace of. But I will go no 
farther. Don't try to prevail with me again. I couldn't 
choose yesterday." 

What was he to do ? He dared not go near her — ^her anger 
might leap out, and make a new barrier. He walked back- 
wards and forwards in maddening perplexity. 

" Maggie," he said, at last, pausmg before her, and speak- 
ing in a tone of imploring wretchedness, " have some pity — 
hear me — forgive me for what I did yesterday. I will obey 
you now — ^I will do nothing without your full consent. But 
don't blight our lives for ever by a rash perversity that can 
answer no good purpose to any one — ^that can only create new 
evils. Sit down, dearest ; wait — ^think what you are going to 
do. Don't treat me as if you couldn't trust me." 

He had chosen the most effective appeal ; but Maggie's will 
was fixed unswervingly on the coming wrench. She nad made 
up her mind to suffer. 



422 THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

" We must not wait," she said, " we must part at once." 

" We canH part, Maggie," said Stephen, more impetuously. 
" I can't bear it. What is the use of inflicting that misery 
on me ? The blow — whatever it may have been — ^has been 
struck now. Will it help any one else that you should drive 
me mad ? " 

" I win not begin any future, even for you," said Maggie, 
tremulously, " with a deliberate consent to what ought not to 
have been. What I told you at Basset I feel now : I would 
rather have died than fall into this temptation. It would have 
been better if we had parted for ever then. But we must 
part now." 

" We will not part," Stephen burst out, instinctively placing 
his back against the door — forgetting everything he had said 
a few moments before > " I will not endure it. You'll make 
me desperate — ^I shan't know what I do." 

Maggie trembled. She felt that the parting could not he 
effected suddenly. She must rely on a slower appeal to 
Stephen's better self — she must be prepared for a harder task 
than that of rushing away while resolution was fresh. She 
sat down. Stephen, watching her with that look of despera- 
tion which had come over him like a lurid light, approached 
slowly from the door, seated himself close beside her, and 
grasped her hand. Her heart beat like the heart of a fright- 
ened bird; but this direct opposition helped her. She felt 
her determination growing stronger. 

"Remember what you felt weeks ago," she began, with 
beseeching earnestness — "Remember what we both felt — 
that we owed ourselves to others, and must conquer every 
inclination which could make us false to that debt. We have 
failed to keep our resolutions ; but the wrong remains the 
same." 

" No, it does not remain the same," said Stephen. " We 
have proved that it was impossible to keep our resolutions. 
We have proved that the feeling which draws us towards 
each other is too strong to be overcome : that natural 
law surmounts every other; we can't help what it clashes 
with." 

" It is not so, Stephen — ^I'm quite sure that is wrong. I 
have tried to think it again and again ; but I see, if we judged 
in that way, there would be a warrant for all treachery and 
cruelty — we should justify breaking the most sacred ties that 
can ever be formed on earth. If the past is not to bind us, 
where can duty lie ? We should have no law but the inclina- 
tion of the moment." 

^*But there are ties tXiat caiD?\»\i^ V'e^^^laY tciere resolution," 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 423 

said Stephen, starting up and walking about again. " What 
is outward faithfulness? Would they have thanked us for 
anything so hollow as constancy without love." 

Maggie did not answer immediately. She was undergoing 
an inward as well as an putward contest. At last she said, 
with a passionate assertion of her conviction, as much against 
herself as against him — 

" That seems right — at first ; but when I look further, I'm 
sure it is not right. Faithfulness and constancy mean some- 
thing else besides doing what is easiest and pleasantest to 
ourselves. They mean renouncing whatever is opposed to the 
reliance others have in us — ^whatever would cause misery to 
those whom the course of our lives has made dependent on 
us. If we — ^if I had been better, nobler, those claims would 
have been so strongly present with me — I should have felt 
them pressing on my heart so continually, just as they do now 
in the moments when my conscience is awake — that the 
opposite feeling would never have grown in me, as it has 
done : it would have been quenched at once — ^I should have 
prayed for help so earnestly — I should have rushed away, as 
we rush from hideous danger. I feel no excuse for myself — 
none. I should never have failed towards Lucy and Philip as 
I have done, if I had not been weak, selfish, and hard — able 
to think of their pain without a pain to myself that would 
have destroyed all temptation. Oh, what is Lucy feeling now; ? 
She believed in me — ^she loved me — she was so good to me. 
Think of her " 

Maggie's voice was getting choked as she uttered these 
last words. 

" I canH think of her," said Stephen, stamping as if with 
pain. " I can think of nothing but you, Maggie. You de- 
mand of a man what is impossible. I felt that once ; but I 
can't go back to it now. And where is the use of your 
thinking of it, except to torture me ? You can't save them 
from pam now ; you can only tear yourself firom me, and make 
my life worthless to me. And even if we could go back, and 
both fulfil our engagements — ^if that were possible now — 
it would be hateful — horrible, to think of your ever being 
Philip's wife — of your ever being the wife of a man you didn't 
' love. We have both been rescued from a mistake." 

A deep flush came over Maggie's face, and she couldn't 
speak. Stephen saw this. He sat down again, taking her 
band in his, and looking at her with passionate entreaty. 

" Maggie I Dearest I If you love me, you are m^"** Who 
can have so great a claim on you as I have ? M^ 
up in your love. There is nothing in the pf 



424 THB MILL ON THS FLOSS. 

our right to each other : it is the first time we have either of 
us loved with our whole heart and soul." 

Maggie was still silent for a little while — looking down. 
Stephen was in a flutter of new hope*: he was going to 
triumph. But she raised her eyes and met his with a 
glance that was filled with the anguish of regret — ^not with 
yielding. 

"No — not with my whole heart and soul, Stephen," she 
said, with timid resolution. "I have never consented to it 
with my whole mind. There are memories, and affections, 
and longing after perfect goodness, that have such a strong 
hold on me ; they would never quit me for long ; they would 
come back and be pain to me — ^repentance. I couldn't live in 
peace if I put the shadow of a wilful sin between myself and 
God. I have caused sorrow already — ^I know — ^I feel it ; but 
I have never deliberately consented to it : I have never said, 
* They shall suffer, that I may have joy.' It has never been 
my will to marry you : if you were to win consent from the 
momentary triumph of my feeling for you, you would not 
have my whole soul. If 1 could wake back again into the 
time before yesterday, I would choose to be true to my 
calmer affections, and live without the joy of love." 

Stephen loosed her hand, and rising impatiently, walked up 
and down the room in suppressed rage. 

"Good God I" he burst out, at last, "what a miserable 
thing a woman's love is to a man's. I could conunit crimes 
for you — and you can balance and choose in that way. But 
you dori)t love me : if you had a tithe of the feeling for me 
that I have for you, it would be impossible for you to think 
for a moment of sacrificing me. But it weighs nothing with 
you that you are robbing me of my Ufe's happiness." 

Maggie pressed her fingers together almost convulsively as 
she held them clasped on her lap. A great terror was upon 
her, as if she were ever and anon seeing where she stood by 
great flashes of lightning, and then again stretched forth 
her hands in the darkness. 

" No — ^I don't sacrifice you — ^I couldn't sacrifice you," she 
said, as soon as she could speak again ; "but I can't believe 
in a good for you, that I feel — ^that we both feel is a wrong 
towards others. We can't choose happiness either for our- 
selves or for another : we can't tell where that will lie. We 
can only choose whether we will indulge ourselves in the 
present moment, or w^hether we will renounce that for the 
sake of obeying the divine voice within us — ^for the sake of 
being true to all the motives that sanctify our lives. I know 
tl^ia belief is hard; it> \i2i;» «ilii^^ed away from me again and 



THB MILL OK THE FLOSS. 425 

again ; "but I have felt that if I let it go for ever, I should 
have no light through the darkness of this life." 

"But, Maggie," said Stephen, seating himself by her again, 
" is it possible that you don't see that what happened yester- 
day has altered the whole position of things ? What infa- 
tuation is it — ^what obstinate prepossession that blinds you to 
that ? It is too late to say what we might have done or what 
we ought to have done. Admitting the very worst view of 
what has been done, it is a fact we must act on now ; our 
position is altered ; the right course is no longer what it was 
before. We must accept our own actions, and start afresh 
from them. Suppose we had been married yesterday ? It is 
nearly the same thing. The effect on others would not have 
been different. It would only have made this difference to 
ourselves," Stephen added, bitterly, "that you might have 
acknowledged then that your tie to me was stronger than to 
others." 

Again a deep flush came over Magdie's face, and she was 
silent. Stephen thought again that he was beginning to 
prevail — ^he had never yet believed that he should not prevail : 
there are possibilities which our minds shrink from too com- 
pletely for us to fear them. 

"Dearest," he said, in his deepest, tenderest tone, leaning 
towards her and putting his arm round her, " you are mine 
now — ^the world believes it — duty must spring out of that 
now : in a few hours you will be legally mine, and those who 
had claims on us will submit — ^they will see that there was a 
force which declared against their claims." 

Maggie's eyes opened wide in one terrified look at the face 
that was close to hers, and she started up— pale again. 

" Oh, I can't do it," she said, in a voice almost of agony — 
" Stephen— don't ask me — don't urge me. I can't argue any 
longer — ^I don't know what is wise ; but my heart will not let 
me do it. I see — ^I feel their trouble now : it is as if it were 
i branded on my mind. I have suffered, and had no one to 
pity me ; and now I have made others suffer. It would 
never leave me ; it would embitter your love to me. I do 
care for Philip— in a different way : I remember all we said, 
to each other ; I know how he thought of me as the one 
promise of his Ufe. He was given to me that I might make 
his lot less hard ; and I have forsaken him. And Lucy — she 
has been deceived — she who trusted me more than any one. 
I cannot marry you : I cannot take a good for myself that has 
been wrung out of their misery. It is not the force that 
ought to rule us — this that we feel for each other ; it would 
rend me away from all that my past life haft ia»' " ^*^ 



426 THB MILL ON THB FLOSS. 

holy to me. I can't set out on a fresh life, and forget that : I 
must go hack to it, and cling to it, else I shall feel as if there 
were nothing firm heneath my feet." 

" Good God, Maggie !" said Stephen, rising too and grasp- 
ing her arm, "you rave. How can you go hack without 
marrying me ? You don't know what will he said, dearest. 
You see nothing as it really is." 

"Yes, I do. But they will helieve me. I will confess 
everything. Lucy will believe me — she will forgive you, and 
— and — Oh, some good wiU come by clinging to the right. 
Dear, dear Stephen, let me go !^-don't drag me into deeper 
remorse. My whole soul has never consented — ^it does not 
consent now." 

Stephen let go her arm, and sank back on his chair, half 
stunned by despairing rage. He was silent a few moments, 
not looking at her ; while her eyes were turned towards him 
yearningly, in alarm at this sudden change. At last he said, 
still without looking at her — 

" Go, then — leave me — don't torture me any longer — ^I can't 
bear it." 

Involuntarily she leaned towards him and put out her hand 
to touch his. But he shrank from it as if it had been burning 
iron, and said again— 

" Leave me." 

Maggie was not conscious of a decision as she turned away 
from that gloomy averted face, and walked out of the room : 
it was like an automatic action that fulfils a forgotten intention. 
What came after ? A sense of stairs descended as if in a 
dream — of flagstones — of a chaise and horses standing — then 
a street, and a turning into another street where a stage-coach 
was standing, taking in passengers — and the darting thought 
that that coach would take her away, perhaps towards home. 
But she could ask nothing yet, she only got into the coach. 

Home — where her mother and brother were — ^Philip — 
Lucy — the scene of her very cares and trials — was the haven 
towards which her mind tended — ^the sanctuary where sacred 
relics lay — where she would be rescued from more falling. 
The thought of Stephen was like a horrible throbbing pain, 
which yet, as such pains do, seemed to urge all other thoughts 
into activity. But among her thoughts, what others would 
say and think of her conduct was hardly present. Love and 
deep pHy and remorseful anguish left no room for that. 

The coach was taking her to York — farther away from 
home ; but she did not learn that until she was set down in 
the old city at midnight. It was no matter : she could sleep 
there, and start home t\ie iiex\> ^"arj* "^"^ ^^^ ^"^^ purse in 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 427 

her pocket, with all her money m it — ^a bank-note and a sove- 
reign : she had kept it in her pocket from forgetftilness, after 
going out to make purchases the day before yesterday. 

Did she lie down in the gloomy bedroom of the old inn 
that night with her will bent unwaveringly on the path of 
penitent sacrifice? The great struggles of life are not so 
easy as that ; the great problems of life are not so clear. In 
the darkness of that night she saw Stephen's face turned 
towards her in passionate, reproachftd misery ; she lived 
through again all the tremulous delights of his presence with 
her that made existence an easy floating in a stream of joy, 
instead of a quiet resolved endurance and effort. The love 
she had renounced came back upon her with a cruel charm ; 
she felt herself opening her arms to receive it once more ; and 
then it seemed to slip away and fade and vanish, leaving only 
the dying sound of a deep, thrilling voice that said, " Gone— 
for ever gone." 



■ ■ 

■ > 



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■ I. 






if 

SI 



lV 



.■■j|:.| 

5'' " 



■-ji 



BOOK SEVENTH. 

THE FINAL RESCUE. 



CHAPTER L 

THB BETUKN* TO THE MILL. 

Between four and five o'clock on the afternoon of the fifth 
day from that on which Stephen and Maggie had left St. 
Ogg's, Tom TuUiver was standing on the gravel-walk outside 
the old house at Dorlcote Mill. He was master there now: 
he had half fulfilled his father's dying wish, and by years of 
steady self-government and energetic work he had brought 
himself near to the attainment of more than the old respecta- 
bility which had been the proud inheritance of the Dodsons 
and Tullivers. 

But Tom's face, as he stood in the hot, still sunshine of that 
summer afternoon, had no gladness, no triumph in it. His 
mouth wore its bitterest expression, his severe brow its hard- 
est and deepest fold, as he drew down his hat farther over his 
eyes to shelter them from the sun, and, thrusting his hands 
deep into his pockets, began to walk up and down the gravel. 
No news of his sister had been heard since Bob Jakin had 
come back in the steamer from Mudport, and put an end to 
all improbable suppositions of an accident on the water by 
stating that he had seen her land from a vessel with Mr. 
Stephen Guest. Would the next news be that she was mar- 
ried — or what ? Probably that she was not married. Tom's 
mind was set to the expectation of the worst that could hap- 
pen — ^hot death, but dis^ace. 

As he was walking with his back toward the entrance gate, 
and his face toward the rushing mill-stream, a tall, dark-eyed 
figure, that we know well, approached the gate, and paused 
to look at him, with a fast-beating heart. Her brother was 
the human being of whom she had been most afraid from her 
childhood upward — afraid with that fear which springs in us 
when we love one who is inexorable, unbending, unmodifiable 
— with a mind that we can never mowW oxa^^N^i'ss.xs^^s^^^sj^ 



430 TH]fi MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

yet that we can not endure to alienate from ns. That deep- 
rooted fear was shaking Maggie now ; but her mind was un- 
swervingly bent on returning to her brother, as the natural 
refuge that had been given her. In her deep humiliation un- 
der the retrospect of her own weakness — ^in her anguish at the 
injury she had inflicted, she almost desired to endure the se- 
verity of Tom's reproof, to submit in patient silence to that 
harsh disapproving judgment against which she had so often 
rebelled : it seemed no more than just to her now — who was 
weaker than 6he was ? She craved that outward help to her 
better purpose which would come from complete, submissive 
confession — ^from being in the presence of those whose looks 
and words would be a reflection of her own conscience. 

Maggie had been kept on her bed at York for a day with 
that prostrating headache which was likely to follow on the 
terrible strain of the previous day and night. There was an 
expression of physical pain still about her brow and eyes, and 
her whole appearance, with her dress so long unchanged, was 
worn and distressed. She lifted the latch of the gate and 
walked in — slowly. Tom did not hear the gate; he was just 
then close upon the roaring dam; but he presently turned, 
and, lifting up his eyes, saw the figure whose worn look and 
loneliness seemed to* him a confirmation of his worst conjec- 
tures. He paused, trembling and white with disgust and in- 
dignation. 

Maggie paused too — three yards before him. She felt the 
hatred in his face — felt it rushing through her fibres ; but she 
must speak. 

" Tom," she began, faintly, " I am come back to you — I am 
come back home — ^for refuge — ^to tell you every thing." 

" You will find no home with me," he answered, with trem- 
ulous rage. " You have disgraced us all. You have disgraced 
my father's name. You have been a curse to your best friends. 
You have been base — deceitful — no motives are strong enough 
to restrain you. I wash my hands of you forever. You don't 
belong to me." 

Their mother had come to the door now. She stood para- 
lyzed by the double shock of seeing Maggie and hearing Tom's 
words. 

"Tom," said Maggie, with more courage, "I am perhaps 
not so guilty as you believe me to be. I never meant to give 
way to my feelings. I struggled against them. I was carried 
too far in the boat to come back on Tuesday. I came back as 
soon as I could." 

" I can't believe in you any more," said Tom, gradually pass- 
ing" from the tremnloua exciit^TCkfixiX. o^\}tv^^^\.\fika\>iaL<i\!Lt to cold 



THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 431 

inflexibility. " You have been carrying on a clandestine rela- 
tion with Stephen Guest — as you /did before with another. He 
went to see you at my aunt Moss's ; you walked alone with 
him in the lanes ; you must have behaved as no modest girl 
would have done to her cousin's lover, else that could never 
have happened. The people at Luckreth saw you pass ; you 
passed all the other places ; you knew what you were doing. 
You have been using Philip Wakem as a screen to deceive 
Lucy — the kindest friend you ever had. Go and see the re^ 
turn you have made her : she's ill — unable to speak : my moth- 
er can't go near her, lest she should remind her of yow." 

Maggie was half stunned — ^too heavily pressed upon by her 
anguish even to discern any difference between her actual 
guilt and her brother's accusations, still less to vindicate her- 
self. 

"Tom," she said, crushing her hands together under her 
cloak in the effort to speak again, " whatever I have done, I 
repent it bitterly. I want to make amends. I will endure any 
thing. I want to be kept from doing wrong again." 

"What win keep you?" said Tom, with cruel bitterness. 
*'Not religion — ^not your natural feelings of gi-atitude and 
honor. And he — ^he would deserve to be shot if it were not — 
But you are ten times worse than he is. I loathe your char- 
acter and your conduct. You struggled with your feelings, 
you say. Yes ! J have had feelings to struggle with, but I 
conquered them. I have had a harder life than you have had, 
but I have found my comfort in doing my duty. But I will 
sanction no such character as yours ; the world shall know that 
jTfeel the difference between right and wrong. If you are in 
want, I will provide for you — let my mother know. But you 
shall not come under my roof. It is enough that I have to 
bear the thought of your disgrace ; the sight of you is hateful 
to me."- 

Slowly Maggie was turning away, witb despair in her heart. 
But the poor frightened mother's love leaped out now, stronger 
than all dread. 

" My child, I'll go with you. You've got a mother." 

Oh the sweet rest of that embrace to the heart-stricken Mag- 
gie ! More helpful than all wisdom is one draught of simple 
human pity that will not forsake us. 

Tom turned and walked into the house. 

" Come in, my child," Mrs. Tulliver whispered. " He'll let 
you stay and sleep in my bed. He won't deny that, if I ask 
him." 

" No, mother," said Maggie, in a low tone, like a moan. 
" I will never go in." 



432 THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 



"Then wait for me outside. I'll get ready and come with 
you." 

When his mother appeared with her bonnet on, Tom came 
out to her in the passage, and put money into her hands. 

" My house is yours, mother, always," he said. " You will 
come and let me know every thing you want — ^you will come 
back to me." 

Poor Mrs. Tulliver took the money, too frightened to say 
any thing. The only thing clear to her was the mother's in- 
stinct that she would go with her unhappy child. 

Maggie was waiting outside the gate ; she took her moth- 
er's hand, and they walked a little way in silence. 

" Mother," said Maggie, at last, " we will go to Luke's cot- 
tage. Luke will take me in. He was very good to me when 
I was a little girl." 

" He's got no room for us, my dear, now, his wife's got so 
many children. I don't know where to go, if it isn't to one o' 
your aunts ; and I hardly durst," said poor Mrs. Tulliver, quite 
aestitute of mental resources in this extremity. 

Maggie was silent a little while, and then said, 

" Let us go to Bob Jakin's, mother ; his wife will have room 
for us, if they have no other lodger." 

So they went on their way to St. Ogg's — ^to the old house 
by the river side. 

Bob himself was at home, with a heaviness at heart which 
resisted even the new joy and pride of possessing a two 
months' old baby — quite the liveliest of its age that had ever 
been born to prince or packman. He would perhaps not so 
thoroughly have understood all the dubiousness of Maggie's 
appearance with Mr. Stephen Guest on the quay at Mudport 
if he had not witnessed the effect it produced on Tom when 
he went to report it ; and since then, the circumstances which 
in any case gave a disastrous character to her elopement had 
passed beyond the more polite circles of St. Ogg's, and had 
become matter of common talk, accessible to the grooms and 
errand-boys ; so that when he opened the door and saw Mag- 
gie standing before him in her sorrow and weariness, he had 
no question to ask, except one, which he dared only ask him- 
self — where was Mr. Stephen Guest ? Bob, for his part, hoped 
he might be in the warmest department of an asylum under- 
stood to exist in the other world for gentlemen who are likely 
to be in fallen circumstances there. 

The lodgings were vacant, and both Mrs. Jakin the larger 

and Mrs. Jakin the less were commanded to make all things 

comfortable for " tlie o\d missis and the young miss" — alas ! 

that she was stili ^^ miss?"* ^\ife \ix^<ettvo\\& Y>Oci ^^s» %«?itely per- 



THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 433 

plexed as to how this result could have come about — ^how Mr. 
Stephen Guest could have gone away from her, or could have 
let her go away from him, when he had the chance of keeping 
her with him. But he was silent, and would not allow his 
wife to ask him a question — would not present himself in the 
room, lest it should appear like intrusion and a wish to pry 
— having the same chivalry toward dark-eyed Maggie as in 
the days when he had bought her the memorable present of 
books. 

But after a day or two Mrs. Tulliver was gone to the Mill 
again for a few hours to see to Tom's household matters. 
Maggie had wished this: after the first violent outburst of 
feelmg, which came as soon as she had no longer any active 
purpose to fulfill, she was less in need of her mother's pres- 
ence ; she even desired to be alone with her grief. But she 
had been solitary only a little while in the old sitting-room 
that looked on the river, when there came a tap at the door, 
and turning round her sad face as she said ^' Come in," she 
saw Bob enter with the baby in his arms, and Mumps at his 
heels. 

"We'll go back, if it disturbs you, miss," said Bob. 

"No," said Maggie, in a low voice, wishing she could smile. 

Bob, closing the door behind him, came and stood before her. 

" You see, we've got a little un, miss, and I wanted you to 
look at it, and take it in your arms, if you'd be so good ; for 
we've made free to name it after you, and it 'ud be better for 
your takin' a bit o' notice on it.'* 

Maggie could not speak, but she put out her arms to receive 
the tiny baby, while Mumps snuffed at it anxiously, to ascer- 
tain that this transference was all right. Maggie's heart had 
swelled at this action and speech of Bob's: she knew well 
enough that it was a way he had chosen to show his sympathy 
and respect. 

" Sit down. Bob," she said presently, and he sat down in 
silence, finding his tongue unmanageable in quite a new fash* 
ion, refusing to say what he wanted it to say. 

" Bob," she said, after a few moments, looking down at the 
baby, and holding it anxiously, as if she feared it might slip 
from her mind and her fingers, " I have a favor to ask of you." 

" Don't you speak so, miss," said Bob, grasping the skin of 
Mumps's neck ; * if there's any thing I can do for you, I should 
look upon it as a day's earnings." 

" I want you to go to Dr. Kenn's, and ask to speak to. him, 
and tell him that I am here, and should be very grateftil if he 
would come to me while my mother is away, Shft "wlL \tf:8s 
come back till evening." 

T 



484 THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 

" Eh, miss, Pd do it in a minute — ^it is but a step ; but Dr. 
Kenn's wife lies dead — she's to be buried to-morrow— died the 
day I come from Mudport. It's all the more pity she should 
ha' died just now, if you want him. I hardly like to go a-nigh 
him yet." 

" Oh no, Bob," said Maggie, " we must let it be — ^till after a 
few days, perhaps — when you hear that he is going about again. 
But perhaps he may be going out of town — a distance," she 
added, with a new sense of despondency at this idea. 

" Not he, miss," said Bob. ^'-H^U none go away. He isn't 
one o' them gentlefolks as go to cry at waterin'-places when 
their wives die ; he's got summat else to do. He looks fine an' 
sharp after the parish — ^he does. He christened the little un ; 
an' ho was aJt, me to know what I did of a Sunday, as I didn't 
come to church. But I told him I was upo' the travel three 
parts o' the Sundays — an' then I'm so used to bein' on my 
legs, I can't sit so long on end — ' an' lors, sir,' says I, * a pack- 
man can do wi' a small 'lowance o' church : it tastes strong,' 
says I ; ' there's no call to lay it on thick.' Eh, miss, how good 
the little un is wi' you ! It's like as if it knowed you ; it part- 
ly does, I'll be bound — ^like the birds know the momin'." 

Bob's tongue was now evidently loosed from it's unwonted 
bondage, and might even be in danger of doing more work 
than was required of it. But the subjects on which he longed 
to be informed were so steep and difficult of approach, that his 
tongue was likely to run on along the level rather than to carry 
him on that unbeaten road. He felt this, and was silent again 
for a little while, ruminating much on the possible forms in 
which he might put a question. At last he said, in a more 
timid voice than usual, 

" "Will you give me leave to ask you only one thing, miss ?" 

Maggie was rather startled, but she answered, " Yes, Bob, 
if it is about myself — not about any one else." 

" Well, miss, it's this : Do you owe any body a grudge ?" 

" No, not any one," said Maggie, looking up at him inquir- 
ingly. " Why ?" 

" Oh lors, miss," said Bob, pinching Mumps's neck harder 
than ever, " I wish you did, an' 'ud tell me ; I'd leather him 
till I couldn't see — I would; an' the justice might do what he 
liked to me arter." 

"Oh Bob," said Maggie, smiling faintly, "you're a very 
good friend to me. But I shouldn't like to" punish any one, 
even if they'd done me wrong ; I've done wrong myself too 
often." 

This view of things was puzzling to Bob, and threw more 
obscurity than ever ovei ^hat> could possibly have happened 



THE MILL 02f THE TLOSS. 435 

between Stephen and Maggie. But further questions would 
have been too intrusive, even if he could have framed them 
suitably, and he was obliged to carry baby away again to an 
expectant mother. 

" Happen you'd like Mumps for company, miss," he said,, 
when he had taken the baby again. " He's rare company — 
Mumps is ; he knows ivery thing, an' makes no bother about 
it. If I tell him, he'll lie before you an' watch you — as still — 
just as he watches my pack. You'd better let me leave him a 
bit ; he'll get fond on you. Lors, it's a fine thing to hev a 
dumb brute fond on you ; it'll stick to you, an' make no jaw." 

" Yes, do leave him, please," said Maggie. " I think I should 
like to have Mumps for a friend." 

" Mumps, lie down there," said Bob, pointing to a place in 
front of Maggie, " an' niver do you stir till you're spoke to." 

Mumps lay down at once, and made no sign of restlessness 
when his master left the room. • 



CHAPTER n. 

ST. ogg's passes judgment. 



It was soon known throughout St. Ogg's that Miss Tulliver 
was come back. She had not, then, eloped in order to be mar- 
ried to Mr. Stephen Guest — at all events, Mr. Stephen Guest 
had not married her, which came to the same thing, so far as 
her culpability was concerned. We judge others according to 
results ; how else ? — not knowing the process by which results 
are arrived at. If Miss Tulliver, after a few months of well- 
chosen travel, had returned as Mrs. Stephen Guest, with a post- 
marital troitsseau^ and all the advantages possessed even by the 
most unwelcome wife of an only son, public opinion, which at 
St. Ogg's, as elsewhere, always knew what to think, would have 
judged in strict consistency with those results. Public opin- 
ion, in these cases, is always of the feminine gender — not the 
world, but the wofTd's wife ; and she would have seen that 
two handsome young people — ^the gentleman of quite the first 
family in St. Ogg's — Shaving found themselves in a false posi- 
tion, had been led into a course which, to say the least of it, 
was highly injudicious, and productive of sad pain and disap- 
pointment, especially to that sweet young thing. Miss Deane. 
Mr. Stephen Guest had certainly not behaved well; but then, 
young men were liable to those sudden infatuated attach- 
ments ; and bad as it might seem in Mrs. Stephen GueattA ^- 
mit the fiuntest advances frombei coxrairJ^Yos^x ^^<iR^>&k>^ 



486 THB lOLL ON THE FLOSS. 

been said that she was actually en^ged to young Wakem— 
old Wakem himself had mentioned it), still she was very young 
— " and a deformed young man, you know ! — and young Gnest 
so very fascinating ; and, they say, he positively worships her [ 
(to be sure, that can't last !^ ; and he ran away with her in the ) 
boat quite against her will — and what could she do? She 
couldn't come back then : no one would have spoken to her. 
And how very well that maize-colored satinette becomes her 
complexion ! It seems as if the folds in front were quite come 
in ; several of her dresses were made so — the^ say he thinks 
nothing too handsome to buy for her. Poor Miss Deane ! She } 
is very pitiable ; but then, there was no positive engagement; \ 
and the air at the coast will do her good. After all, if young 
Guest felt no more for her than that^ it was better for her not 
to marry him. What a wonderful marriage for a girl like Miss 
Tulliver —quite romantic ! Why, young Guest wul put up for 
the borougtt at the next election. Nothing like commerce | 
nowadays ! That young Wakem nearly went out of his mind ' 
— ^he always was rather queer ; but he's gone abroad again to ( 
be out of the way — quite the best thing for a deformed young 
man. Miss Unit declares she wiQ never visit Mr. and Mrs. Ste- 
phen Guest — such nonsense ! pretending to be better than oth- 
er people. Society couldn't be carried on if we inquired into 
private conduct in that way ; and Christianity tells us to think 
no evil ; and my belief is that Miss Unit had no cards sent 
her." 

But the results, we know, were not of a kind to warrant this 
extenuation of the past. Maggie had returned without a trous- 
seau, without a husband — in that degraded and outcast condi- 
tion to which error is well known to lead ; and the world's 
wife, with that fine instinct which is given her for the preser- 
vation of Society, saw at once that Miss Tulliver's conductHad 
been of the most aggravated kind. Could any thing be more 
detestable ? A girl so much indebted to her friends — whose 
mother, as well as herself, had received so much kindness from 
the Deanes — ^to lay the design of winning a young man's affec- 
tions away from her own cousin, who had behaved like a sister 
to her ! Winning his affections ? That was not the phrase 
for such a girl as Miss Tulliver; it wopld have been more cor- 
rect to say that she had been actuated by 'mere unwomanly 
boldness and unbridled passion. There was always something 
questionable about her. That connection with young Wakem, 
which, they said, had been carried on for years, looked very 
ill — disgusting, in fact. But with a girl of that disposition ! 
To the world's wife there had always been something in Miss 
Toliiver's very physique that a refined instinct fdt to be pro- 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 4d7 

phetic of harm. As for poor Mr. Stephen Guest, he was rather 
pitiable than otherwise : a young man of five-and-twenty is not 
to be too severely judged in these cases — ^he is really very 
much at the mercy of a designing, bold ffirl. And it was clear 
that he had given way in spite of himsdf ; he had shaken her 
off as soon as he could; indeed, their having parted so soon 
looked very black indeed— for /ler. To be sure, he had writ- 
ten a letter, laying all the blame on himself, and telling the 
story in a romantic fashion, so as to try and make her appear 
quite innocent : of course he could do that ! But the refined 
instinct of the world's wife was not to be deceived : providen- 
tially—else what^ would become of Society? Why, her own 
brother had turned her from his door : he had seen enough, 
you might be sure, before he would do that. A truly respect- 
able young man — ^Mr. Tom Tulliver ; quite likely to rise in the 
world ! His sister's disgrace was naturally a heavy blow to 
him. It was to be hoped that she would go out of the neigh- 
borhood — ^to America, or any where — so as to purify the air 
of St. Ogg's from the taint of her presence — extr^nely danger- 
ous to daughters there ! No good could happen to her : it 
was only to be iToped that she would repent, and that God 
would have mercy on her : He had not the care of Society on 
His hands, as the world's wife had. 

It required nearly a fortnight for fine instinct to assure it- 
self of these inspirations ; indeed, it was a whole week before 
Stephen's letter came, telling his father the facts, and adding 
that he was gone across to Holland — ^had drawn upon the agent 
at Mudport for money — was incapable of any resolution at 
present. 

Maggie, all this while, was too entirely filled with a more 
agonizing anxiety to spend any thought on the view that was 
being taken of her conduct by the world of St. Ogg's ; anxiety 
about Stephen — ^Lucy — ^Philip — ^beat on her poor heart in a 
hard, drivmg, ceaseless storm of mingled love, remorse, and 
pity. If she had thought of rejection and injustice at all, it 
would have seemed to her that they had done their worst — 
that she could hardly feel any stroke from them intolerable 
since the words she had heard from her brother's lips. Across 
all her anxiety for the loved and the injured, those words shot 
again and again, Uke a horrible pang that would have brought 
misery and dread even into a heaven of delights. The idea of 
ever recovering happiness never glimmered in her mind for a 
moment : it seemed as if every sensitive fibre in her were too 
entiiw " bv pain ever to vibrate again to another 

Is ^'^^ore her a«. oxv^ ^v;X» qS. ^^sa^^ss^sifc-* 



438 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

thing to gnarantee her from more falliiig : her own weakness 
haunted her like a vision of hideous possibilities, that made do 
peace conceivable except such as lay in the sense of a sure 
refuge. 

But she was not without practical intentions : the love of in- 
dependence was too strong an inheritance.and a habit for h^ 
not to remember that she must get her bread ; and when oth- 
er projects looked vague, she fell back on that of returning to 
her plain sewing, and so getting enough to pay for ber lodg- 
ing at Bob's. She meant to persuade her mother to return to 
the Mill by-and-by, and Uve with Tom again, and somehow or 
other she would maintain herself at St. Ogg's. Dr. Kenn would 
perhaps help her and advise her. She remembered his parting 
words at the bazar. She remembered the momentary feeling 
of reliance that had sprung in her when he was talking with 
her, and she waited with yearning expectation for the oppor- 
tunity of confiding every thing to him. Her mother called ev- 
ery day at Mr. Deane's to learn how Lucy was : the report was 
always sad — ^nothing had yet roused her from the feeble pas- 
sivity which had come on with the first sh^ck. But of Philip 
Mrs.Tulliver had learned nothing : naturally, no one whom she 
met would speak to her about what related to her daughter. 
But at last she summoned courage to go and see sister Glegg, 
who of course would know every thing, and had even been to 
see Tom at the Mill in Mrs. Tulliver's absence, though he had 
said nothing of what had passed on the occasion. 

As soon as her mother was gone Maggie put on her bonnet. 
She had resolved on walking to the Rectory and asking to see 
Dr. Kenn : he was in deep grief; but the grief of another does 
not jar upon us in such circumstances. It was the first time 
she had been beyond the door since her return ; nevertheless, 
her mind was so bent on the purpose of her walk, that the un- 
pleasantness of meeting people on the way, and being stared 
at, did not occur to her. But she had no sooner passed be- 
yond the narrower streets which she had to thread from Bob's 
dwelling, than she became aware of unusual glances cast at her, 
and this consciousness made her hurry along nervously, afraid 
to look to right or left. Presently, hoWever, she came full on 
Mrs. and Miss Turnbull, old acquaintances of her family : they 
both looked at her strangely, and turned a little aside without 
speaking. AH hard looks were pain to Maggie, but .her self- 
reproach was too strong for resentment : no wonder they will 
not speak to me, she thought ; they are very fond of Lucy. 
But now she knew that she was about to pass a group of gen- 
tlemen, who were standing at the door of the billiard-rooms, 
and she could not beVp s^^m^ -^oxxxi^^Lorc^ ^^^-^ out a little 



THB MILL OK THB FLOSS. 439 

with his glass at his eye, and bow to her with that air of non- 
chalance which he might have bestowed on a friendly barmaid. 
Maggie's pride was too intense for her not to feel that sting, 
even in the midst of her sorrow, and for the first time the 
thought took strong hold of her that she would have other ob- 
loquy cast on her besides that which was felt to be due to her 
breach of faith toward Lucy. But she was at the Rectory 
now ; there, perhaps, she would find something else than ret- 
ribution. Retribution may come from any voice : the hard- 
est, cruelest, most imbinited urchin at the street-comer can in- \ 
flict it : surely help and pity are rarer things — ^more needful ' 
for the righteous to bestow. 

She was shown up at once, after being announced, into Dr. 
Kenn's study, where he sat among piled-up books, for which 
he had little appetite, leaning his cheek against the head of his 
youngest child, a girl of three. The child was sent away with 
the servant, and when the door was closed Dr. Kenn said, 
placing a chair for Maggie, 

" I was coming to see you, Miss Tulliver ; you have antici- 
pated me ; I am glad you did." 

Maggie looked at him with her childlike directness as she 
had done at the bazar, and said, "I want to tell you every 
thing." But her eyes filled fast with tears as she said it, and 
all the pent-up excitement of her humiliating walk would have 
its vent before she could say more. 

" Do tell me every thing," Dr. Kenn said, with quiet kind- 
ness in his grave, firm voice. " Think of me as one to whom 
a long experience has been granted, which may enable him to 
help you." 

In rather broken sentences, and with some effort at first, but 
soon with the greater ease that came from a sense of relief in 
the confidence, Maggie told the brief story of a struggle that 
must be the beginnmg of a long sorrow. Only the day before 
Dr. Kenn had been made acquainted with the contents of 
Stephen's letter, and he had believed them at once, without 
the confirmation of Maggie's statement. That involuntary 
plaint of hers, " OA, I must ^o," had remained with him as the 
sign that she was undergoing some inward conflict. 

Maggie dwelt the longest on the feeling which had made ^ 
her come back to her mother and brother, which made her y 
clingto all the memories of the past. When she had ended ^ , 
Dr. Kienn was silent for some minutes : there was a difficulty 
on his mind. He rose, and walked up and down the hearth 
with his hands behind him. At last he seated himself again, 
and said, looking at Maggie, 

" Your prompting to go to your nearest friends — ^to rei 



440 THX MILL ON THX FLOflB. 

where all the ties of your life have been formed— ^10 a trae 
prompting, to which the Church in its original constitution and 
discipline responds— o^nin^ its arms to the penitent — iwa^- 
ing over its (mildren toThe hist — ^never abandoning them j^jl 
they Are hopdesslj reprobate. And the Church ought to rep- 
resent the fe^ng of the conmiunity, so that every parish shoidd 
be a &mily knit together by Clu-istian brotherhood under a 
spiritual £&ther. But the ideas of discipline and Christian £11- 
temity are entirely relaxed — ^they can hardly be said to exist 
in the public mind : they hardly survive except in the partial, 
contradictory form they have taken in the narrow communities 
of schismatics ; and if I were not supported by the firm faith 
that the Church must ultimately recover the full force of that 
constitution which is alone fitted to human needs, I should 
often lose heart at observing the want of fellowship and sense 
of mutual responsibility among my own flock. At present 
every thing seems tending toward the relaxation of ties — ^to- 
ward the substitution of wayward choice for the adherence to 
obligation, which has its roots in the past. Tour conscience 
and your heart have given you true light on this point. Miss 
Tulliver ; and I have said all this that you may know what my 
wish about you — what my advice to you would be, if they 
sprang from my own feeling and opinion unmodified by coun- 
teracting circumstances." 

Dr. Kenn paused a little while. There was an entire absence 
of effusive benevolence in his manner ; there was something al- 
most cold in the gravity of his look and voice. K Maggie had 
not known that his benevolence was persevering in proportion 
to its reserve, she might have been chilled and fi-ightened. As 
it was, she listened expectantly, quite sure that there would be 
some effective help in his words. He went on : 

*' Your inexperience of the world, Miss Tulliver, prevents you 
firom anticipatmg fully the very unjust conceptions that will 
probably be formed concerning your conduct — conceptions 
which will have a baneful effect even in spite of known evi- 
dence to disprove them." 

"Oh, I do — ^I begin to see," said Maggie, unable to repress 
this utterance of her recent pain. " I know I shall be insulted ; 
I shall be thought worse than I am." 

" You perhaps do not yet know," said Dr. Kenn, with a touch 
of more personal pity, " that a letter is come winch ought to 
satisfy every one who has known any thing of you, that you 
chose the steep and difficult path of a return to the right at 
the moment when that return was most of all difficult." 

" Oh — where is he ?" said poor Maggie, with a flush and 
tremor that no presence could have hindered. 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 441 

" He is gone abroad : he has written of all that passed to 
his father. He has vindicated you to the utmost ; and I hope 
the communication of that letter to your cousin will have a 
beneficial effect on her." 

Dr. Kenn waited for her to get calm again before he went 
on. 

" That letter, as I said, ought to suffice to prevent false im- 
pressions concerning you. But I am bound to tell you, Miss 
Tulliver, that not only the experience of my whole life, but my 
observation within the last three days, makes me fear that 
there is hardly any evidence which will save you from the 
painful effect, of false imputations. The persons who are the 
most incapable of a conscientious struggle such as yours are 
precisely those who will be likely to shrink from you, because 
they will not believe in your struggle. I fear your life here 
will be attended not only with much pain, but with many ob- 
structions. For this reason — and for this only — ^I ask you to 
consider whether it will not perhaps be better for you to take 
a situation at a distance, according to your former intention* 
I will exert myself at once to obtam one for you." 

*' Oh, if I could but stop here !" said Maggie. " I have no 
heart to begin a strange life again. I should have no stay. I 
should feel Uke a lonely wanderer, cut off from the past. I 
have written to the lady who offered me a situation to excuse 
myself. If I remained here, I could perhaps atone in some 
way to Lucy — ^to others ; I could convince them that I'm sor- 
ry. And," she added, with some of the old proud fire flashing 
out, " I'wilTnot go away because people say false things of 
raey They shall learn to retract them. If I must go away at 
last because — because others wish it, I will not go now." 

" Well," said Dr. Kenn, after some consideration, " if you 
determine on that. Miss Tulliver, you may rely on all the in-, 
fluence my position gives me. I am bound to aid and coun- 
tenance you by the very duties of my office as a parish priest. 
I will add, that personally I have a deep interest in your peace 
of mind and weuare." 

" The only thing I want is some occupation that will enable 
me to get my bread and be independent," said Maggie. *' I 
shall not want much. I can go on lodging where I am." 

" I must think over the subject maturely," said Dr. Kenn, 
" and in a few days I shall be better able to ascertain the gen- 
eral feeling. I shall come to see you ; I shall bear you con- 
stantly in mind." 

When Maggie had left him. Dr. Kenn stood ruminating with 
his hands behind lum, and his eyes fibced on the carpet, under 
a painftd sense of doubt and difficulty. Tk^ \«vi^ ^^^.^Xjb^^s^^ 



442 THX MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

• 

letter, which he had read, and the actual relations of all the 
persons concerned, forced upon him powerfully the idea of an 
ultimate marriage between Stephen and Maggie as the least 
evil ; and the impossibility of their proximity in St. Ogg's on 
any other supposition, until after years of separation, threw an 
insurmountable prospective difficulty over Maggie's stay there. 
On the other hand, he entered with all the comprehension of a 
man who had known spiritual conflict, and lived through years 
of devoted service to his fellow-men, into that state of Mag- 
gie's heart and conscience which made the consent to the ma^ 
riage a desecration to her ; her conscience must not be tam- 
pered with ; the principle on which she had acted was a safer 
guide than any balancing of consequences. His experience 
told him that intervention was too dubious a responsibility to 
be lightly incurred : the possible issue either of an endeavor to 
restore the former relations with Lucy and Philip, or of coun- 
seling submission to this irruption of a new feeling, was hidden 
in a darkness all the more impenetrable because each imme- 
diate step was clogged with evil. 

The great problem of the shifting relation between passion 
and duty is clear to no man who is capable of apprehending 
it"! tire "question whether the moment has come in which a 
man has fallen below the possibility of a renunciation that will 
cany any efficacy, and must accept the sway of a passion 
against which he had struggled as a trespass, is one for which 
we have no master key that will fit all cases. The casuists 
have become a by- word of reproach ; but their perverted spirit 
of minute discrimination was the shadow of a truth to wnich 
eyes and hearts are too often fatally sealed — ^the truth that 
moral judgments must remain false and hollow unless they are 
checked and enlightened by a perpetual reference to the spe- 
cial circumstances that mark the individual lot. 

All people of broad, strong sense have an instinctive repug- 
nance to the men of maxims, because such people early discern 
that the mysterious complexity of our life is not to be embraced 
by maxims, and that to lace ourselves up in'formulas of that 
sort is to repress all the divine promptings and inspirations 
that spring from growing insight and sympathy. And the 
man of maxims is the popular representative of the minds that 
are guided in their moral judgment solely by general rules, 
thinking that these will lead them to justice by a ready-made 
patent method, without the trouble of exerting patience, dis- 
crimination, impartiality — without any care to assure them- 
selves whether they have the insight that comes from a hardly- 
earned estimate of temptation, or from a life vivid and intense 
enough to have created a wide fellow-feeUng with all that is 
bnm&n. 



\ 



THS MILL ON THE FLOSS. 448 



CHAPTER m. 

SHOWING THAT OLD ACQUAINTANCES AEB CAPABLE OP SUB- 

PBISING US. 

When Maggie was at home again, her mother brought her 
news of an unexpected line of conduct in aunt Glegg. As 
long as Maggie had not been heard of, Mrs. Glegg had half 
closed her shutters and drawn down her blinds : she felt as- 
sured that Maggie was drowned : that was far more probable 
than that her niece and legatee should have done anything to 
wound the family honor in the tenderest point. When, at 
last, she learned from Tom that Maggie had come home, and 
gathered from him what was her explanation of her absence, 
she burst forth in severe reproof of Tom for admitting the 
worst of his sister until he was compelled. If you were not 
to stand by your " kin" as long as there was a shred of honor 
attributable to them, pray what were you to stand by ? Light- 
ly to admit conduct in one of your own family that would 
force you to alter your will had never been the way of the 
Dodsons ; and though Mrs. Glegg had always augured ill of 
Maggie's future at a time when other people were perhaps 
less clear-sighted, yet fair play was a jewel, and it was not for 
her own friends to help to rob the girl of her fair fame, and 
to cast her out from family shelter to the scorn of the outer 
world until she had become unequivocally a family disgrace. 
The circumstances were unprecedented in Mrs. Glegg's expe- 
rience — ^nothing of that kind had happened among the Dod- 
sons before ; but it was a case in which her hereditary recti- 
tude and personal strength of character found a common chan- 
nel along with her fundamental ideas of clanship, as they did 
in her life-long regard to equity in money-matters. She quar- 
reled with Mr. Glegg, whose kindness, flowing entirely into 
compassion for Lucy, made him as hard in his judgment of 
Maggie as Mr. Deane himself was ; and, fuming against her 
sister TuUiver because she did not at once come to her for ad- 
vice and help, she shut herself up in her own room with "Bax- 
ter's Saint's Rest" from morning till night, denying herself to 
all visitors, till Mr. Glegg brought from Mr. Deane the news 
of Stephen's letter. Then Mrs. Glegg fel^ »d ade- 

quate fighting-ground — ^then she laid ft> 
ready to meet all comers. While Ifrs. 



444 THX MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

ing but shake her head and cry, and wish that cousin Abbott 
had died, or any number of funerals had happened rather than 
this, which had never happened before, so that there was no 
knowing how to act, and Mrs. Pullet could never enter St 
Ogg'g again, because " acquaintances" knew of it all, Mrs. 
Gfegg only hoped that Mrs. Wooll, or any one else, would 
come to her with their false tales about her own niece, and 
she would know what to say to that ill-advised person ! 

Again she had a scene of remonstrance with Tom, all the 
more severe in proportion to the greater strength of her pres- 
ent position. But Tom, like other immovable things, seemed 
only the more rigidly fixed under that attempt to shake him. 
Poor Tom ! he judged by what he had been able to see, and 
the judgment was painful enough to hhnself. He thought he 
had the demonstration of facts observed through years by his 
own eyes, which gave no warning of their imperfection, that 
Maggie's nature was utterly untrustworthy, and too strongly 
ma^ed with evil tendencies to be safely treated with lenien- 
cy : he would act on that demonstration at any cost ; but the 
thought of it made his days bitter to him. Tom, like every 
one ^us, was imprisoned within the limits of his own nature, 
and his education had simply glided over him, leaving a slight 
deposit of polish : if you are inclined to be severe on his se- 
verity, remember that the responsibility of tolerance lies with 
those who have the wider vision. There had arisen in Tom a 
repulsion toward Maggie that derived its very intensity from 
their early childish love in the time when they had clasped 
tiny fingers together, and their later sense of nearness' in a 
common duty and a common sorrow : the sight of her, as he 
had told her, was hateful to him. In this branch of the Dod- 
son family aunt Glegg found a stronger nature than her own 
— a nature in which family feeling had lost the character of 
clanship, in taking on a doubly deep dye of personal pride. 
Mrs. Glegg allowed that Maggie ought to be punished — she 
was not a woman to deny that : she knew what conduct was 
— ^but punished in proportion to the misdeeds proved against 
her, not to those which were cast upon her by people outside 
her own family, who might wish to show that their own kin 
were better. 

"Your aunt Glegg scolded me so as niver was, my dear," 
said poor Mrs. Tulliver, when she came back to Maggie, " as I 
didn't go to her before ; she said it wasn't for her to come to 
me first. But she spoke like a sister, too : having she allays 
was, and hard to please — oh dear ! — ^but she's said the kindest 
word as has ever been spoke by you yet, my child. For she 
(BaySy for all she's been so set again' having one extry in the 



THE HILL ON THE FLOSS. 445 

house, and making extry spoons and things, and putting her 
about in her ways, you shall have a shelter in her house, if 
you'll go to her dut&ul, and she'll uphold you against folks as 
say harm of you when they've no call. And I told her I 
thought you couldn't bear to see nobody but me, you was so 
beat down with trouble ; but she said, ' Zwon't throw ill words 
at her ; there's them out o' th' family 'ull be ready enough to 
do that. But I'll give her good advice ; an' she must be hum- 
ble.' It's wonderful o' Jane ; for I'm sure she used to throw 
every thing I did wrong at me — ^if it was the raisin wine as 
turned out bad, or the pies too hot, or whativer it was." 

" Oh mother," said poor Maggie, shrinking from the thought 
of all the contact her bruised mind would have to bear, " tell 
her I'm very grateful ; I'll go to see her as soon as I can ; but 
I can't see any one just yet, except Dr. Kenn. I've been to 
him : he will advise me, and help me to get some occupation. 
I can't live with any one, or be dependent on them, tell aunt 
Glegg ; I must get my own bread. But did you hear nothing 
of Philip — ^Philip Wakem ? Have you never seen any one 
that has mentioned him ?" 

" No, my dear ; but I've been to Lucy's, and I saw your 
uncle, and he says they got her to listen to the letter, and she 
took notice o' Miss Guest, and asked questions, and the doctor 
thinks she's on the turn to be better. What a world this is — 
what trouble, oh dear ! The law was the first beginning, an' 
it's gone from bad to worse all of a sudden, just when the luck 
seemed on the turn." This was the first lamentation that Mrs. 
TuUiver had let slip toJViaggie, but old habit had been revived 
by the interview with sister Glegg. 

" My poor, poor mother !" Maggie burst out, cut to the heart 
with pity and compunction, and throwing her arms round her 
mother's neck, " I was always naughty and troublesome to you. 
And now you might have been happy if it hadn't been for me." 

" Eh, my dear," said Mrs.Tulliver, leaning toward the warm 
young cheek, "I must put up wi' my children — ^I shall never 
have no more ; and if they bring me bad luck, I must be fond 
on it ; there's nothing else much to be fond on, for my fumitur* 
went long ago. And you'd got to be veiy good once ; I can't 
think how it's turned out the wrong way so !" 

Still two or three more days passed, and Maggie heard noth- 
ing of Philip ; anxiety about him was becoming her predom- 
inant trouble, and she summoned courage at last to inquire 
about him of Dr. Kenn on his next visit to her. He did not 
even know if Philip was at home. The elder Wakem was 
made moody by an accumulation of annoyance : the disappoint- 
ment in this young Jetsome, to whom, apparently ^\^^ ^^a* ^ 



446 THE MILL OK THS FLOSS. 

good deal attached, had been followed close by the catastrophe 
to his son's hopes after he had conceded his feelings to them, 
and incautiously mentioned this concession in St. Ogg's ; and 
he was almost fierce in his brusqueness when any one asked 
him a question about his son. But Philip could hardly have 
been ill, or it would have been known through the calling-in 
of the medical man ; it was probable that he was gone out of 
the town for a little while. Maggie sickened under this sus- 
pense, and her imagination began to live more and more per- 
sistently in what Philip was enduring. What did he believe 
about her ? 

At last Bob brought her a letter, without a post-mark, di- 
rected in a hand which she knew familiarly in the letters of 
her own name — a hand in which her name had been written 
long ago in a pocket Shakspeare which she possessed. Her 
mother was in the room, and Maggie, in violent agitation, hur- 
ried up stairs, that she might read the letter in solitude. She 
read it with a throbbing brow. 

" Maggie, — ^I believe in you — ^I know you never meant to 
deceive me — ^I know you tried to keep faith to me, and to all. 
I believed this before I had any other evidence of it than your 
own nature. The night after I last parted from you I suffered 
torments. I had seen what convinced me that you were not 
fii'ee ; that there was another whose presence had a power over 
you which mine never possessed ; but through all the sugges- 
tions — almost murderous suggestions — of rage and jealousy, 
my mind made its way to belief in your truthfulness. I was 
sure that you meant to cleave to me, as you had said ; that 
you had rejected him ; that you struggled to renounce him,, 
for Lucy's sake and for mine. But I could see no issue that 
was not fatal for yow, and that dread shut out the very thought 
of resignation. I foresaw that he would not relinquish you, 
and I believed then, as I believe now, that the strong attrac- 
tion which drew you together proceeded only from one side 
of your characters, and belonged to that partial, divided ac- 
tion of our nature which makes half the tragedy of the human 
lot. I have felt the vibration of chords in your nature that I 
have continually felt the want of in his. But perhaps I am 
wrong ; perhaps I feel about you as the artist does about the 
scene over which his soul has brooded with love : he would 
tremble to see it confided to other hands ; he would never be- 
lieve that it could bear for another all the meaning and the 
beauty it bears for him. 

" I dared not trust myself to see you that morning ; I was 
filled with selfish passion ; I was shattered by a night of con- 



THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 447 

scious delirium. I told you long ago that I bad never been 
resigned even to the mediocrity of my powers; how could I 
be resigned to the loss of the one thing which had ever come 
to me on earth with the promise of such deep joy as would 
give a new and blessed meaning to the foregoing pain — the 
promise of another self that would lift my aching affection into 
the divine rapture of an ever-springing, ever-satisfied want ? 

" But the miseries of that night had prepared me for what 
came before the next. It was no surprise to me. I was cer- 
tain that he had prevailed on you to sacrifice every thing to 
him, and I waited with equal certainty to hear of your mar- 
riage. I measured your love and his by my own. But I was 
wrong, Maggie. There is something stronger in you than 
your love for him. 

" I Avill not tell you what I went through in that interval. 
; But even in its utmost agony — even in those terrible throes 
i that love must suffer before it can be disembodied of selfish de- 
'jsire, my love for you sufficed to withhold me from suicide, 
•without the aid of any other motive. In the midst of my ego- 
ism, I yet could not bear to come like a death-shadow across 
the feast of your joy. I could not bear to forsake the world 
in which you still lived and might need me ; it was part of the 
faith I had vowed to you — ^to wait and endure. Maggie, that 
is a proof of what I write now to assure you of — that no an- 
guish I have had to bear on your account has been too heavy 
a price to pay for the new life into which I have entered in 
loving you. 1 want you to put aside all grief because of the 
gi'ief you have caused me. I was nurtured in the sense of 
privation ; I never expected happiness ; and in knowing you, 
in loving you, I have had, and still have, what reconciles me to 
life. You have been to my affections what light, what color is 
to my eyes — what music is to the inward ear ; you have raised 
a dim unrest into a vivid consciousness. The new life I have 
found in caring for your joy and sorrow more than for what is 
directly my own, has transformed the spirit of rebellious mur- 
muring into that willing endurance which is the birth of strong 
sympathy. I think nothing but such complete and intense love 
could have initiated me into that enlarged life which grows 
and grows by appropriating the life of others ; for before, I was 
always dragged back from it by ever-present painful self-con- 
sciousness. I even think sometimes that this gift of trans- 
ferred life which has come to me in loving you may be a new 
power to me. 

" Then, dear one, in spite of all, you have been the blessing 
of my life. Let no self-reproach weigh on you because of me- 
lt is I who should rather reproach myself for having ur^e{il\ja?i 



448 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 

feelings upon you, and hurried you into words that you have 
felt as fetters. You meant to be true to those words ; you ham 
been true. I can measure your sacrifice by what I have blown 
in only one half hour of your presence with me, when I dream- 
ed that you might love me best. But, Maggie, I have no just 
claim on you for more than affectionate remembrance. 

" For some time I have shrunk from writing to you, because 
I have shrunk even from the appearance of wishing to thrust 
myself before you, and so repeating my original error. But 
you will not misconstrue me. I know thiat we must keep apart 
for a long while ; cruel tongues would force us apart, if nothing 
else did. But I shall not go away. The place where you are 
is the one where my mind must live, wherever I might travel 
And remember that I am unchangeably yours — ^yours, not with 
selfish wishes, but with a devotion that excludes such wishes. 

" God comfort you, my loving, large-souled Maggie. If every 
one else has misconceived you, remember that you have never 
been doubted by him whose heart recognized you ten years 
ago. 

" Do not believe any one who says I am ill because I am not 
seen out of doors. I have only had nervous headaches — ^no 
worse than I have sometimes had them before. But the over- 
powering heat inclines me to be perfectly quiescent in the day- 
time. I am strong enough to obey any word which shall tell 
me that I can serve you by word or deed. 

" Yours to tne last, Philip Wakem." 

As Maggie knelt by the bed sobbing, with that letter press- 
ed under her, her feelings again and again gathered themselves 
in a whispered cry, always in the same words : 

" O God, is there any happiness in love that could make me 
forget tJieir pain ?" 



CHAPTER lY. 

MAGGIE AND LUOT. 



By the end of the TV^ek Dr. Kenn had made up his mind 
that there was only one way in which he could secure to Mag- 
gie a suitable living at St. Ogg's. Even with his twenty years' 
experience as a parish priest, he was aghast at the obstinate 
continuance of imputations against her in the face of evidence. 
Hitherto he had been rather more adored and appealed to than 
was quite agreeable to him ; but now, in attempting to open 
the ears of women to reason, and their consciences to justice, 



THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 449 

on behalf of Maggie Tulliver, he suddenly found himself as 
powerless as he was aware he would have been if he had at- 
tempted to influence the shape of bonnets. Dr. Kenn could 
not be contradicted ; he was listened to in silence ; but when 
he left the room, a comparison of opinions amonghis hearers 
yielded much the same result as before. Miss Tulliver had 
undeniably acted in a blamable manner : even Dr. Kenn did 
not deny that ; how, then, could he think so lightly of her as 
to put that favorable interpretation on every thing she had 
done? Even on the supposition that required the utmost 
stretch of belief-— namely, that none of the things said about 
Miss Tulliver were true — still, since they had been said about 
her, they had cast an odor round her which must cause her to 
be shrunk from by every woman who had to take care of her 
own reputation — and of Society. To have taken Maggie by 
the hand and said, " I will not believe unproved evil of you ; 
my lips shall not utter it ; my ears shall be closed against it ; 
I, too, am an erring mortal, liable to stumble, apt to come short 
of my most earnest efforts ; your lot has been harder than 
mine, your temptation greater ; let us help each other to stand 
and walk without more falling" — to have done this would have 
JomandGd courage, deep pity, self-knowledge, generous trust 
— would have demanded a mind that tasted no piquancy in 
evil-speaking, that felt no self-exaltation in condemning, that 
cheated itself with no large words into the belief that hfe can 
have any moral end, any high religion, which excludes the 
striving after perfeet truth, justice, and love toward the indi- 
vidual men and women who come across our own path. The 
ladies of St. Ogg's were not beguiled by any wide speculative 
conceptions ; but they had their favorite abstraction, called So- 
ciety, which served to make their consciences perfectly easy in 
doing what satisfied their own egoism — ^thinking and speak- 
ing the worst of Maggie Tulliver, and turning their backs upon 
her. It was naturally disappointing to Dr. Kenn, after two 
years of superfluous incense from feminine parishioners, to find 
them suddenly maintaining their views in opposition to his ; 
but then, they maintained them in opposition to a Higher Au- 
thority, which they had venerated longer. That Authority had 
furnished a very explicit answer to persons who might inquire 
where their social duties began, and might be inclined to take 
wide views as to the starting-point. The answer had not 
turned on the ultimate good of Society, but on " a certain man" 
who was found in trouble by the wayside. 

Not that St. Ogg's was empty of women with some tender- 
ness of heart and conscience ; probably it had as fair a propor- 
tion of human goodness in it as any oXXiet ««i'a5^\x^x!\'^\Ki^^K^ 



450 THE MILL OTSf THE FLOSS. 

of that day. But until every good man is brave, we must ex- 
pect to find many good women timid — ^too timid even to be- 
lieve in the correctness of their own best promptiDgs, when 
these would place them in a minority. And the men at St 
egg's were not all brave, by any means ; some of them were 
even fond of scandal, and to an extent that might have given 
their conversation an effeminate character, if it had not been 
distinguished by masculine jokes, and by an occasional shrug 
of the shoulders at the mutual hatred ot women. It was the 
general feeling of the masculine mind at St. Ogg's that women 
were not to be interfered with in their treatment of each 
other. 

And thus. every direction in which Dr.Kenn had turned in 
the hope of procuring some kind recognition and some employ- 
ment for Ms^gie proved a disappointment to him. Mrs. James 
Torry could not think of taking Maggie as a nursery govern- 
ess, even temporarily — ^a young woman about whom " such 
things had been said," and about whom " gentlemen joked ;" 
and Miss Kirke, who had a spinal complaint, and wanted a 
reader and companion, felt quite sure that Maggie's mind must 
be of a quality with which ^e, for her part, could not risk any 
contact. Why did not Miss TuUiver accept the shelter offer- 
ed by her aunt Glegg ? it did not become a girl like her to re- 
fuse it. Or else, why did she not go out of the neighborhood, 
and get a situation where she was not known ? (It was not, 
apparently, of so much importance that she should carry her 
dangerous tendencies into strange families unknown at St. 
Ogg's.) She must be very bold and hardened to wish to stay 
in a parish where she was so much stared at and whispered 
about. 

Dr. Kenn, having great natural firmness, began, in the pres- 
ence of this opposition, as every firm man would have done, to 
contract a certain strength of determination over and above 
what would have been called forth by the end in view. He 
himself wanted a daily governess for his younger children; 
and though he had hesitated in the first instance to offer this 
position to Maggie, the resolution to protest with the utmost 
force of his personal and priestly character against her being 
crushed and driven away by slander was now decisive. Mag- 
gie gratefully accepted an employment that gave her duties as 
well as a support : her days would be filled now, and solitary 
evenings would be a welcome rest. She no longer needed the 
sacrifice her mother made in staying with her, and Mrs. Tulli- 
ver was persuaded to go back to the Mill. 

But now it began to be discovered that Dr. Kenn, exemplary 
as be had hitherto api^^^T^^^ \i^^ \i\& cvotchets — possibly his 



THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 451 

weaknesses. The masculine mind of St. Ogg's smiled pleas- 
antly, and did not wonder that Kenn liked to see a line pair 
of eyes daily, or that he was inclined to take so lenient a view 
of the past ; the feminine mind, regarded at that period as less 
powerful, took a more melancholy view of the case. If Dr. 
Kenn should be beguiled into marrying that Miss Tulliver ! 
It was not safe to be too confident even about the best of men ; 
an apostle had fallen, and wept bitterly afterward ; and though 
Peter's denial was not a close precedent, his repentance was 
likely to be. 

Maggie had not taken her daily walks to the Rectory for 
many weeks, before the dreadful possibility of her some time 
or other becoming the rector's wife had been talked of so oft- 
en in confidence that ladies were beginning to discuss how 
they should behave to her in that position. For Dr. Kenn, it 
had been understood, had sat in the schoolroom half an hour 
one morning when Miss Tulliver was giving her lessons ; nay, 
he had sat there every morning : he had once walked home 
with her — he almost always walked home with her — and if 
not, he went to see her in the evening. What an artful creature 
she was ! What a mother for those children ! It was enough 
to make poor Mrs. Kenn turn in her grave, that they should be 
put under the care of this girl only a few weeks after her 
death. Would he be so lost to propriety as to marry her be- 
fore the year was out ? The masculine mind was sarcastic, and . 
thought not. 

The Miss Guests saw an alleviation to the sorrow of wit- 
nessing a folly in their rector — at least their brother would be 
safe ; and their knowledge of Stephen's tenacity was a con- 
stant ground of alarm to them, lest he should come back and 
marry Maggie. They were not among those who disbelieved 
their brother's letter, but they had no confidence in Maggie's 
adherence to her renunciation of him ; they suspected that she 
had shrunk rather from the elopement than from the marriage, 
and that she lingered in St. Ogg's relying on his return to her. 
They had always thought her disagreeable ; they now thought 
her artful and proud — having quite as good grounds for that 
judgment as you and I probably have for many strong opin- 
ions of the same kind. Formerly they had not altogether de- 
lighted in the contemplated match with Lucy, but now then* 
dread of a marriage between Stephen and Maggie added its 
niomentum to their genuine pity and indignation on behalf of 
the gentle forsaken girl, in making them desire that he should 
return to her. As soon as Lucy was able to leave home, she 
was to seek relief from the oppressive heat of this August by 
going to the coast with the Miss G\xe«l^\ ^j£A\\» -«^>si,\si.K^^ess. 



452 THB MILL ON THB FLOSS. 

plans that Stephen should be induced to join tbem. On the 
very first hint of gossip concerning Maggie and Dr. Kenn, the 
report was conveyed in Miss Guest's letter to her brother. 

Maggie had frequent tidings through her mother, or aunt 
Glegg, or Dr. Kenn, of Lucy's gradual progress toward re- 
covery, and her thoughts tended continually toward her uncle 
Deane's house. She nungered for an interview with Lucy, if 
it were only for five minutes — ^to utter a word of penitence, to 
be assured by Lucy's own eyes and lips that she did not be- 
lieve in the willing treachery of those whom she had loved 
and trusted. But she knew that even if her ancle's indigna- 
tion had not closed his house against her, the agitation of such 
an interview would have been forbidden to Lucy. ' Only to 
have seen her without speaking would have been some relief; 
for Mag^e was haunted by a face cruel in its very gentleness 
— a face that had been turned on hers with glad sweet looks 
of trust and love from the twilight time of memory, changed 
now to a sad and weary face by a first heart-stroke. And as 
the days passed on, that pale image became more and more 
distinct ; the picture grew and grew into more speaking def- 
initeness under the avenging hand of remorse ; the soft hazel 
eyes, in their look of pain, were bent forever on Maggie, and 
pierced her the more because she could see no anger in them, 
but Lucy was not yet able to go to church, or any place where 
Maggie could see her ; and even the hope of that departed 
when the news was told her by aunt Glegg that Lucy was 
really going away in a few days to Scarborough with the Miss 
Guests, who had been heard to say that they expected their 
brother to meet them there. 

Only those who have known what hardest inward conflict is 
can know what Maggie felt as she sat in her loneliness the 
evening after hearing that news from Mrs. Glegg — only those 
who have known what it is to dread their own selfish desires 
as the watching mother would dread the sleeping-potion that 
was to still her own pain. 

She sat without candle in the twilight, with the window 
wide open toward the river, the sense of oppressive heat add- 
ing itself undistinguishably to the burden of her lot. Seated 
on a chair against the window, with her arm on the window- 
sill, she was looking blankly at the flowing river, swift with 
the advancing tide, struggling to see still the sweet face in its 
unreproaching sadness, that seemed now from moment to mo- 
ment to sink away and be hidden behind a form that thrtist 
itself between and made darkness. Hearing the door open, 
she thought Mrs. Jakin was coming in with her supper, as 
usual ; and with that T«^\x^"a3aa^ \.q \x\NSaL%^e,-ech which comes 



THS MILL ON THE FLOSS. 458 

with languor and wretchedness, she shrank from tnming round 
and saying she wanted nothing : good little Mrs. Jakin would 
be sure to make some well-meant remarks. But the next mo- 
ment, without her having discerned the sound of a footstep, 
she felt a light hand on her shoulder, and heard a voice close 
to her saying " Maggie !" 

The face was there — changed, but all the sweeter ; the hazel 
eyes were there, with their heart-piercing tenderness. 

" Maggie !" the soft voice said. " Lucy !" answered a voice 
with a shai'p ring of anguish in it ; and Lucy threw her arms 
round Maggie's neck, and leaned her pale cheek against the 
burning brow. 

" I stole out,'^ said Lucy, almost in a whisper, while she sat 
down close to Maggie and held her hand, " when papa and the 
rest were away. Alice is come with me. I asked her to help 
me. But I must only stay a little while, because it is so late." 

It was easier to say that at first than to say any thing else. 
They sat looking at each other. It seemed as if the interview 
must end without more speech, for speech was very difficult. 
Each felt that there would be something scorching in the 
words that would recall the irretrievable wrong. But soon, 
as Maggie looked, every distinct thought began to be over- 
flowed by a wave of loving penitence, and words burst forth 
with a sob. 

" God bless you for coming, Lucy." 

The sobs came thick on each other after that. 

" Maggie, dear, be comforted," said Lucy now, putting her 
cheek against Maggie's again. "Don't grieve." And she sat 
still, hoping to soothe Maggie with that gentle caress. 

" I didn't mean to deceive you, Lucy," said Maggie, as soon 
as she could speak. " It always made me wretched that I felt 

what I didn't like you to know It was because I thought 

it would all be conquered, and you might never see any thmg 
to wound you." 

" I know, dear," said Lucy. " I know you never meant to 

make me unhappy It is a trouble that has come on us 

all : you have more to bear than I have ; and you gave him up 
when .... you did what it must have been very hard to do.'' 

They were silent again a little while, sitting with clasped 
hands, and cheeks leaned together. 

" Lucy," Maggie began again, " he struggled too. He want- 
ed to be true to you. He will come back to you. Forgive 
him : he will be happy then. ..." 

These words were wrung forth from Maggie's deepest soul 
with an effort like the convulsed clutch of a dro~ an. 

Lucy trembled and was silent* 



454 THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 

A gentle knock came at the door. It was Alice, the maid, 
who entered and said, 

" I daredn't stay any longer, Miss Deane. They'll find it 
out, and there'll be such anger at your coming out so late." 

Lucy rose and said, " Very well, Alice — ^in a minute." 

" I'm to go away on Friday, Maggie," she added, when Alice 
had closed the door again. "When I come back, and am 
strong, they will let me do as I like. I shall come to you when 
I please then." 

" Lucy," said Maggie, with another great effort, *' I pray to 
God continually that I may never be the cause of sorrow to 
you any more." 

She pressed the little hand that she held between hers, and 
looked up into the face that was bent over hers. Lucy never 
forgot that look. 

^' Maggie," she said, in a low voice, that had the solemnity 
of confession in it, " you are better than I am. I can't " 

She broke off there, and said no more. But they clasped 
each other again in a last embrace. 



CHAPTER V. 

THE LAST CONFLICT. 



In the second week of September Maggie was again sitting 
in her lonely room, battling with the old shadowy enemies 
that were forever slain and rising again. It was past midnight, 
and the rain was beating heavily against the window, driven 
with fitful force by the rushing, loud, moaning wind ; for, the 
day after Lucy's visit, there had been a sudden change in the 
weather ; the heat and drought had given way to cold varia- 
ble winds, and heavy falls of rain at intervals, and she had 
been forbidden to risk the contemplated jouniey until the 
weather should become more settled. In the counties higher 
up the Floss the rains had been continuous, and the comple- 
tion of the harvest had been arrested. And now, for the last 
two days, the rains on this lower course of the river had been 
incessant, so that the old men had shaken their heads and 
talked of sixty years ago, when the same sort of weather hap- 
pening about the equinox brought on the great floods, when 
the bridge was swept away, and the town reduced to great 
misery. But the younger generation, who had seen several 
small floods, thought lightly of these sombre recollections and 
forebodings, and Bob Jakin, naturally prone to take a hopeful 
view of his ownluc\L,\aAx^^^^\.\a&TCL<cii\v^r when she regret- 



THB IdLL OK THS FLOSS. 455 

ted their haying taken a house by the river-side, observing 
that but for that they would have had no boats, which were 
the most lucky of possessions in case of a flood that obliged 
them to go to a distance for food. 

But the careless and the fearful were alike sleeping in their 
beds now. There was hope that the rain would abate by the 
morrow ; threatenings of a worse kind, from sudden thaws 
after falls of snow, had often passed off in the experience of 
the younger ones ; and, at the very worst, the banks would be 
sure to break lower down the river when the tide came in with 
violence, and so the waters would be carried off, without caus- 
ing more than temporary inconvenience, and losses that would 
be felt only by the poorer sort, whom charity would reUeve. 

All were in their beds now, for it was past midnight — all, 
except some solitary watchers such as Maggie. She was seat- 
ed in her little parlor toward the river with one candle, that 
left every thing dim in the room except a ietter which lay be- 
fore her on the table. That letter, which had come to her to- 
day, was one of the causes which had kept her up far on mto 
the night — unconscious how the hours were going — careless 
of seeking rest— with no image of rest coming across her mmd 
except of that far, far off rest, from which there would be no 
more waking for her into this struggling earthly life. 

Two days before Maggie received that letter she had been 
to the Rectory for the last time. The heavy rain would have 
prevented her from going since ; but there was another reason. 
Dr. Kenn, at first enlightened only by a few hints as to the 
new turn which gossip and slander had taken in relation to 
Maggie, had recently been made more fully aware of it by an 
earnest remonstrance from one of his male parishioners against 
the indiscretion of persisting in the attempt to overcome the 
prevalent feeling in the parish by a course of resistance. Dr. 
Kenn, having a conscience void of offense in the matter, was 
still inclined to persevere — was still averse to give way before 
a public sentiment that was odious and contemptible ; but he 
was finally wrought upon by the consideration of the peculiar 
responsibility attached to his office of avoiding the appearance 
of evil — an " appearance" that is always dependent on the av- 
erage quality of surrounding minds. Where these minds are 
low and gross, the area of that " appearance" is proportionate- 
ly widened. Perhaps he was in danger of acting from obsti- 
nacy ; perhaps it was his duty to succumb ; conscientious peo- 
ple are apt to see their duty m that which is the most painful 
course, said to recede was always painful to Dr. Kenn. He 
made up his mind that he must aavise Maggie to sro away 
from St. Ogg's for a time, and he performed toi ^ 



456 THE HILL Oir THB FLOSS. 

with as mucli delicacy as he could, only stating in vague terms 
that he found his attempt to countenance her remaining was a 
source of discord between himself and his parishioners that 
was likely to obstruct his usefulness as a clergyman. He beg- 
ged her to allow him to write to a clerical fiiend of his, who 
might possibly take her into his own family as governess, and, 
if not, would probably know of some other available position 
for a young woman in whose welfare Dr. Kenn felt a strong 
interest. 

Poor Maggie listened with a trembling lip. She could say 
nothing but a faint " Thank you — ^I shall be grateful ;" and 
she walked back to her lodgings through the driving rain with 
a new sense of desolation. She must be a lonely wanderer; 
she must go out among fresh faces, that would look at her 
wonderingTy, because days did not seem joyful to her ; she 
must begin a new life, in which she would have to rouse her- 
self to receive new impressions ; and she was so unspeakably, 
sickeningly weary ! There was no home, no help for the err- 
ing; even those who pitied were constrained to hardness. 
But ought she to complain ? Ought she to shrink in this way 
from the long penance of life, which was all the possibility she 
had of lightening the load to some other sufferers, and so 
changing that passionate error into a new force of unselfish 
human love ? All the next day she sat in her lonely room, 
'with a window darkened by the cloud and the driving rain, 
thinking of that future, and wrestling for patience ; for what 
repose could poor Maggie ever win except by wrestling ? 

And on the third day — this day of which she had just sat 
out the close — the letter had come which was lying on the 
table before her. 

The letter was from Stephen. He was come back from Hol- 
land ; he was at Mudport again, unknown to any of his friends, 
and had written to her from that place, inclosing the letter to 
a person whom he trusted in St. Ogg's. From beginning to 
end, it was a passionate cry of reproach ; an appeal against her 
useless sacrifice of him — of herself; against that perverted no- 
tion of right which led her to crush all his hopes for the sake 
of a mere idea, and not any substantial good — his hopes, whom 
she loved, and who loved her with that single overpowering 
passion, that worship which a man never gives to a woman 
more than once in his life. 

" They have written to me that you are to marry Kenn. As 
if I should believe that ! Perhaps they have told you some 
such fables about me. Perhaps they tell you I have been 
* traveling.' My body has been dragged about somewhere, 
but Zhave never travd^^ ireota l\\ft bSdeous place where you 



THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 457 

left me — ^where I started up from the stupor of helpless rage 
to find you gone. 

"Maggie, whose pain can have been like mine? Whose 
injury is like mine ? Who besides me has met that long look 
of love that has burnt itself into mv soul, so that no other im- 
age can come there ? Maggie, call me back to you — call me 
back to life and goodness! I am banished from both now. I 
have no motives ; I am indifferent to every thing. Two months 
have only deepened the certainty that I can never care for life 
without you. Write me one word — say *Come!' In two 
days I shall be with you. Mag^e, have you forgotten what 
it was to be together ? to be within reach of a Took — ^to be 
within hearing of each other's voice ?" 

When Maggie first read this letter she felt as if her real 
temptation had only just begun. At the entrance of the chill, 
.dark cavern, we turn with unworn courage from the warm 
light; but how, when we have trodden far in the damp dark- 
ness, and have beenm to be faint and weary — ^how if there is a 
sadden opening above us, and We are invited back again to the 
life-nourishing day? The leap of natural lonraig from under 
the pressure of piin is so strong: that aU less^ii^ediate mo- 
tives are likely to be forgotten till the pain has been escaped 
from. 

For hours Maggie felt as if her struggle had been in vain. 
For hours every other thought that she strove to summon was 
thrust aside by the image of Stephen waiting for the single 
word that would bring him to her. She did not rectd the let- 
ter ; she heard him uttering it, and the voice shook her with 
its old strange power. All the day before she had been filled 
with the vision of a lonely future through which she must carry 
the burden of regret, upheld^ onljr by cfiiging faith. And here, 
dose within her reach — ^nrgin^ itself upon her even as a claim 
— was another future, in which hard endurance and effort 
were to be exchanged for easy delicious leaning on another's 
strength ! And yet that promise of joy in the place of sad- 
ness did not make the dire force of the temptation to Maggie. 
It was Stephen's tone of misery — ^it was the doubt in the jus- 
tice of her own resolve that made the balance tremble, and 
made her once start from her seat to reach the pen and paper, 
and write "Come." 

But close upon that decisive act her mind recoiled, and the 
sense of contradiction with her past self ia her moments of 
strength and clearness came upon her like a pang of conscious 
degradation. No, she must wait — she must pray: the light 
that had forsaken her would come again : she snould feel a^in. 
what she had felt when she had fi.^ a^vj^xoA^^x %s!l\&2s^*^ 

U 



458 THB MILL OK THE FLOSS. 

tion strong enough to conquer agony — ^to conquer delight: she 
should feel again what she had felt when Lucy stood by her, 
when Philip^s letter had stirred all the fibres that bound her 
to the calmer past. 

She sat quite still far on into the night, with no impulse to 
change her attitude, without active force enough even for the 
mental act of prayer — only waiting for the li^ht that would 
surely come again. It came with the memories that no pas- 
sion could long quench : the long past came back to her, and 
with it the fountains of self-renouncing pity and affection, of 
&ithfdnes8 and resolve. The words that were marked by the 
quiet hand in the little old book that she had long ago learned 
by heart ruched over her lips, and found a vent for themselves 
in a low murmur that was quite lost in the loud driving of the 
r^ against the window, and the loud moan and roar of the 
wind : " J have received the Cross, I have received it from thy 
hand ; I will bear it, and bear it tUl death, as thou hast laid it 
upon me.'' 

But soon other words rose that could find no utterance but 
in a sob: " Forgive me, Stephen. It will pass away. Touwill 
come back to her." 

She took up the letter, held it to the candle, and let it bum 
slowly on the hearth. To-morrow she would write to him the 
last word of parting. 

" ' I will bear it, and bear it till death.' . . • But how long it 
Vill be before death comes ! I am so young, so healthy. How 
shall I have patience and strength? Am I to struggle and 
fall, and repent again? Has life other trials as hard for me 
still ?" With that cry of self-despsdr Maggie fell on her knees 
against the table, and buried her sorrow-stricken face. Het 
soul went out to the Unseen Pity that would be with her to 
the end. Surely there was something being taught her by 
this experience of great need, and she must be learning a se- 
cret of human tenderness and long-suffering that the less erring 
could hardly know ? " O God, if my life is to be long, let me 
live to bless and comfort — ^" 

At that moment Maggie felt a startling sensation of sudden 
cold about her knees and feet — it was water flowing under 
her. She started up : the stream was flowing under the door 
that led into the passage. She was not bewildered for an in- 
stant : she knew it was the flood ! 

The tumult of emotion she had been enduring for the last 
twelve hours seemed to have left a great calm in her. With- 
out screaming, she hurried with the candle up stairs to Bob 
Jakin's bedroom. The door was ajar. She went in and shook 
bim by the shoulder. 



THB MILL ON THE FLOSS. 459 

" Bob, the flood is come — ^it is in the house : let us see if we 
can make the boats safe." 

She lighted his candle, while the poor wife, snatching up her 
baby, burst into screams, and then she hurried down again to 
see if the waters were rising fast. There was a step down 
into the room at the door leading from the staircase : she saw 
that the water was already on a level with the step. While 
she was looking, something came with a tremendous crash 
against the window, and sent the leaded panes and the old 
wooden framework inward in shivers, the water pouring in 
after it. 

"It is the boat !" cried Maggie. "Bob, come down to get 
the boats !" 

And without a moment's shudder of fear she plunged 
through the water, which was rising fast to her knees, and by 
the glimmering light of the candle she had left on tJie stairs 
she mounted on to the window-sill and crept into the boat, 
which was left with the prow lodging and protruding through 
the window. Bob was not long after her, hurrying without 
shoes or stockings, but with the lantern in his hand. 

" Why, they're both here — ^both the boats," said Bob, as he 
got into the one where Maggie was. " It's wonderful this 
listening isn't broke too, as well as the mooring." 

In the excitement of getting into the other boat, unfasten- 
ing it and mastering an oar. Bob was not struck with the dan- 
ger Maggie incurred. We are not apt to fear for the fearless 
when we are companions in their danger, and Bob's mind was 
absorbed in possible expedients for the safety of the helpless 
in-doors. The fact that Maggie had been up, had waked him, 
and had taken the lead in activity, gave Bob a vague impres- 
sion of her as one who would help to protect, not need to be 
protected. She too had got possession of an oar, and had 
pushed off, so as to release the boat from the overhanging 
wmdow-frame. 

" The water's rising so fast," said Bob, " I doubt it '11 be in 
at the chambers before long, th' house is so low. I've more 
mind to get Prissy and the child and the mother into the boat, 
if I could, and trusten to the water, for the old house is none 
so safe. And if I let go the boat .... but youP^ he ex- 
claimed, suddenly lifting the light of his lantern on Maggie, as 
she stood in the rain with the oar in her hand and her black 
hair streaming. 

Maggie had no time to answer, for a new tidal current 
swept along the line of the houses, and drove both the boats 
out on to uie wide water with a force that carried them &r 
past the meeting current of the rvveT. 



460 THB MILL ON THE FLOdS. 

In the first moments Maggie felt nothing, thought of noth- 
ing but that she had suddenly passed away from tiiat life 
whioh die had been dreading : it was the transition of death 
without its agony, and she was alone in the darkness with 
God. 

The whole thing had been so rapid — so dream-like, that the 
threads of ordinary association were broken. She saiJc down 
on the seat clutching the oar mechanically, and for a long while 
had no distinct conception of her position. The first tMng that 
waked her to fuller consciousness was the cessation of the rain, 
and a perception that the darkness was divided by the fiuntest 
light, which parted the overhanging gloom from the immeas- 
urable watery level below. She was driven out upon the flood 
— ^that awful visitation of God which her father used to taJk 
of— which had made the nightmare of her childish dr^uns. 
And with that thought there rushed in the vision of the old 
home — and Tom — ^and her mother — ^they had all listened to- 
gether. 

" O God, where am I ? Which is the way home ?" she cried 
out, in the dim loneliness. 

What was happening to them at the Mill ? The floods had 
once nearly destroyed it. They might be in danger — ^in dis- 
tress ; her mother and her brother, alone there, beyond reach 
of help I Her whole soul was strained now on that thought; 
and she saw the long-loved fiices looking for help into the dark- 
ness, and finding none. 

She was floating in smooth water now — ^perhaps far on the 
overflooded fields. There was no sense of present danger to 
check the outgoing of her mind to the old home, and she strain- 
ed her eyes against the curtain of gloom that she might seize 
the first sight of her whereabout — ^that she might catch some 
faint suggestion of the spot toward which all her anxieties 
tended. 

Oh how welcome, the widening of that dismal watery level 
— ^the gradual uplifting of the cloudy firmament — ^the slowly 
defining blackness of objects above the glossy dark ! Yes, she 
must be out on the fields : those were the tops of hedgerow 
trees. Which way did the river lie ? Loolang behind her, 
she saw the lines of black trees ; looking before her, there were 
none : then the river lay before her. She seized an oar, and 
began to paddle the boat forward with the energy of waken- 
ing hope : the dawning seemed to advance more swiftly now 
she was in action, and she could soon see the poor dumb beasts 
crowding piteously on a mound where they had taken refuge. 
Onward she paddled and rowed by turns in the growing twi- 
ligbt; her wet clolTaes c\\m^To^xTii\i<et^«si^\iftt streaming hior 



THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. 461 

was dashed about by the wind, but she was hardly conscious 
ofany bodily sensations except a sensation of strength inspired 
by a mighty emotion. Along with the sense of danger and 

Eossible rescue for those long-remembered beings at the old 
ome, there was an undefined sense of reconcilement with her 
brother : what quarrel, what harshness, what unbelief in each 
other can subsist in the presence of a great calamity, when all 
the artificial vesture of our life is gone, and we are aHL one with 
each other in primitive mortal needs ? Vaguely Maggie felt 
that; in the strong resurgent love toward her brother that 
swept away all the later impressions of hard, cruel offense and 
misunderstanding, and left only the deep, underlying, unshak- 
able memories of early union. 

But now there was a large dark mass in the distance, and 
near to her Maggie could discern the current of the river. The 
dark mass must be — yes, it was — St. Ogg's. Ah 1 now she 
knew which way to look for the first glimpse of the well- 
known trees — ^the gray willows, the now yellowing chestnuts 
— ^and above them the old roof! But there was no color, no 
shape yet ; aQ was faint and dim. More and more strongly 
the energies seemed to come and put themselves forth, as ii 
her life were a stored-up force that was being spent in this 
hour, unneeded for any future. 

She must get her boat into the current of the Floss, else she 
would never be able to pass the Ripple and approach the 
house : this was the thought that occurred to hi p m she imag- 
ined with more and more vividness the state of things round 
the old home. But then she might be carried very far down, 
and be unable to guide her boat out of the current again. For 
the first time distinct ideas of danger began to press upon her ; 
but there was no"^ choice of courses, no room for hesitation, and 
she floated into the current. Swiftly she went now, without 
effort ; more and more clearly in the lessening distance and the 
growing light she began to discern the objects that she knew 
must be the well-known trees and roofs ; nay, she was not far 
off a rushing muddy current that must be the strangely alter- 
ed Ripple. 

Great God I there were floating masses in it, that might dash 
against her boat as she passed, and cause her to perish too 
soon. What were those masses ? 

For the first time Maggie's heart began to beat in an agony 
of dr^ad. She sat helpless, dimly conscious that she was being 
floated along — ^more mtensely conscious of the anticipated 
dash. But the horror was transient; it passed away before 
the oncoming warehouses of St. Og^^. fe\i<^\ia^^'^»».^*^^ 
monib of the Ripple, then; now ^^ xxsos^y^si,^ ^V«t 'Sk^^k^ 



462 THE MILL ON THB FLOSS. ^ 

power to manage tbe boat, and get it, if possible, out of the 
current. She could see now that the bridge was broken down; 
she could see the masts of a stranded vessel £u: out over the 
watery field ; but no boats were to be seen moving on the riv- 
er; such as had been laid hands on were employed in the 
flooded streets. 

With new resolution Maggie seized her oar, and stood up 
agam to paddle ; but the now ebbing tide added to the swi^ 
ness of the river, and she was carried along beyond the bridge. 
She could hear shouts from the windows overlooking the river 
as if the people there were calling to her. It was not till she 
had passed on nearly to Tofton that she could get the boat 
clear of the current. Then, with one yearning look toward her 
uncle Deane's house, that lay farther down the river, she took 
to both her oars, and rowed with aQ her might across the wa- 
tery fields back toward the Mill. Color was beginning to 
awake now, and as she approached the Dorlcote fields she could 
discern the tiuts of the trees— could see the old Scotch firs fiur 
to the right, and the home chestnuts — oh how deep they lay in 
the water — deeper than the trees on this side the hilL And 
the roof of the Mill — ^where was it ? Those heavy fra^ents 
hurrying down the Ripple — ^what had they meant? ^ut it 
was not the house — ^the house stood firm : drowned up to the 
first story, but still firm — or was it broken in at the end to- 
ward the Mill ? 

With panting joy that she was there at last — -joy that over- 
came all distress, Maggie neared the front of the house. At 
first she heard no sound — she saw no object moving. Her 
boat was on a level with the up-stairs windows. She called 
out in a loud,, piercing voice, 

"^om, where are you ? Mother, where are you ? Here is 
Maggie !" 

Soon, from the window of the attic in the central gable, she 
heard Tom's voice : 

" Who is it ? Have you brought a boat ?" 

" It is I, Tom — ^Maggie. Where is mother ?'* 

" She is not here ; she went to Garum the day before yes- 
terday. I'll come down to the lower window." 

*' Alone, Maggie ?" said Tom, in a voice of deep astonish- 
ment, as he opened the middle window on a level with the 
boat. 

" Yes, Tom ; God has taken care of me to bring me to you. 
Get in quickly. Is there no one else ?" 

" i^o," said Tom, stepping into the boat, " I fear the man 
18 drowned : he was cai'ii^^ ^oNra. \Jcv^ "^\Y^\Qi^l think, when 
part of the mill f eU wifti \3cl^ ct^j^ oi \.T^<£:e» «sA ^Xicpaas^ ^^^sss!^ 



THB MIEL ON THB FLOSS. 463 

it. Tve shonted again and again, and there has been no an- 
swer. Give me the oars, Maggie." 

It was not till Tom had pushed off and they were on, the 
wide water — ^he face to face with Maggie — ^that the full mean- 
ing of what had happened rushed upon his mind. It came 
with so overpowering a force — such an entirely new revela- 
tion to his spirit of the depths in life that had lain beyond his 
vision, which he had fancied so keen and clear, that he was un- 
able to ask e question. They sat mutely gazing at each other: 
Maggie with eyes of intense life lookmg out from a weary, 
beaten fkce — ^Tom pale with a certain awe and humiliation. 
Thought was busy though the lips were silent ; and though he 
could ask no question, he guessed a story of almost miraculous 
divinely-protected effort. But at last a mist gathered over the 
blue-gray eyes, and the lips found a word they could utter : 

" Maggie !'* 

Maggie could make no answer but a long deep sob of that 
mysterious wondrous happiness that is one with pain. 

As soon as she could speak, she said, " We will go to Lucy, 
Tom ; we'll go and see if she is safe, and then we can help the 
rest." 

Tom rowed with untired vigor, and with a different speed 
from poor Maggie's. The boat was soon in the current of the 
river again, and soon they would be at Tofton. 

" Park House stands high up out of the flood," said Maggie. 
" Perhaps they have got Lucy there." 

Nothing else was said; now a new danger was being carried 
toward them by the river. Spme wooden machinery had just 
given way on one of the wharves, and huge fragments were 
being floated along. The sun was rising now, and the wide 
area of watery desolation was spread out in dreadful clearness 
around them — ^in dreadful clearness floated onward the hurry- 
ing, threatening masses. A large company in a boat that was 
working its way along under the Tofton houses observed their 
danger, and shouted, " Get out of the current !" 

But that could not be done at once, and Tom, looking before 
him, saw death rushing on them. Huge fragments, clinging 
together in fatal fellowship, made one wide mass across the 
stream. 

" It is coming, Maggie !" Tom said, in a deep hoarse voice, 
loosing the oars apd clasping her. 

The next instant the boat was no longer seen upon the wa- 
ter, and the huge mass was hurrying on in hideous triumph. 

But soon the keel of the boat reappeared, a black speck on 
the golden water. 

The boat reappeared, but 'btotlde^ «xv9l «vaX»^^\Na.^ ^<s^^ ^^-^r^ 



464 THB MILL ON THS FLOSS. 



^ in an embrace never to be parted; living through again in one 
'j supreme moment the days when thev had clasped their little 
S hands in love, and roamed the daisied fields together. 



CONCLUSION. 

Natube repairs her ravages — ^repairs them with her srai- 
shine and with hmnan labor. The desolation wrought by that 
flood had left but little visible trace on the face of the earth 
five years after. The fifth autumn was rich in golden corn- 
stacks, rising in thick dustera among the distant hedgerows; 
the wharves and warehouses on the Moss were busy agam, 
with echoes of eager voices, with hopeful lading and unla^g. 

And every man and woman mentioned in this history was 
still living, except those whose end we know. 

Nature repairs her ravages, but not all. The uptom trees 
are not rooted again ; the parted hills are left scarred : if there 
is a new growth, the trees are not the same as the old, and the 
hills underneath their green vesture bear the marks of the past 
rending. To the eyes that have dwelt on the past there is no 
thorough repair. 

Dorlcote Mill was rebuilt ; and Dorlcote church-yard — ^where 
the brick grave that held a father whom we know was found 
with the stone laid prostrate upon it after the flood — had re- 
covered all its grassy order and decent quiet. 

Near that brick grave there was a tomb erected very soon 
after the flood for two bodies that were found in close em- 
brace, and it was often visited at different moments by two 
men who both felt that their keenest joy and keenest sorrow 
were forever buried there. 

One of them visited the tomb again with a Sweet face be- 
side him — ^but that was years after. 

The other was always solitary. His great companionship 
was among the trees of the Red Deeps, where the buried joy 
seemed still to hover, like a revisiting spirit. 

The tomb bore the names of Tom and Maggie Tulliver, and 
below the names it was written, 

** In their death they were not diTided." 



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